


Pet.

by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades (2001)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Begging, Bleeding, Blood As Lube, Blood Play, Boot Worship, Branding, Broken Bones, Chains, Cockwarming, Crying, Cum Eating, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation Wetting, Devotion, Drugging, Edging, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Forced Sex, Forced Voyeurism, Gang Rape, Gaslighting, Given for Sex, Humiliation, Injury, Kidnapping, Leg Humping, Loaned Out, Loss of Eye, M/M, Mental Abuse, Mirror Sex, Murder, No MCD, Object Insertion, Obsession, Orgasm Denial, PTSD, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Rescue Attempts, Rough Sex, Self Spanking, Sex Toys, Slapping, Slavery, Sold for Sex, Spanking, Starving, Stockholm Syndrome, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, Whipping, boot licking, humping, maintenance spanking, mental damage, non-consensual drugging, self punishment, self-soothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: Rochefort was a man who knew what he wanted and demanded perfection, always.Curious, then, why he had wanted this boy in particular; the epitome of imperfection with his attitude and penchant for histrionics. Messy curls left untamed down his back, dirt beneath his fingernails. A farm boy pretending to be a musketeer, just as he had been all those years ago when Rochefort had first met him.Rochefort always wanted a pet.PLEASE. READ. THE. TAGS.
Relationships: d'Artagnan/Comte de Rochefort
Comments: 215
Kudos: 170
Collections: Hannigram Kinkmeme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let us repeat: **PLEASE. READ. THE. TAGS.** This was our terrifyingly addictive sandbox of madness for a few weeks, and because we're awful people, we're bringing it to you twice weekly for the next two months. This has no happy ending (though it's debatable whether or not the ending is _un_happy...), and no rescue (well...), and no fluff. Not really. It's just mean coz we're mean, so please do read the tags, we've warned for everything and more, so be safe going in!
> 
> (for the more dire chapters we will post additional warnings in the notes, but from here on out y'all... it's a ride!)

Rochefort knew how to be a patient man.

He had a temper and was known for his cruelties, but Rochefort was patient. He was loyal to a fault, and had few moral scruples to deal with; if an order was given, it would be carried it. He maintained the respect of his men, kept them to a regimented training schedule that guaranteed their skills with sword and musket the highest of any private army within France’s borders. 

As a reward, he was rarely policed for his personal vices.

He had his choice of the young people at court, men and women. Of course, discretion was of the utmost importance, but he found that few of his conquests wanted to make their  _ in _ discretions known once he was through with them, and he had no one to show off for. He took who he wanted, and what he wanted from them. His mercies correlated directly with the level of obedience he was given, and he cared little what happened to anyone who had been in his bed the night before, as long as they were not in it come morning.

Rochefort was a man who knew what he wanted and demanded perfection, always.

Anything less than perfect was disposed of.

Anyone less than perfect was pushed towards perfection, come what may.

Death, after all, was just more proof of imperfection, and Rochefort would not have it near him.

Curious, then, why he had wanted  _ this _ boy in particular; the epitome of imperfection with his attitude and penchant for histrionics. Messy curls left untamed down his back, dirt beneath his fingernails. A farm boy pretending to be a musketeer, just as he had been all those years ago when Rochefort had first met him.

He sat, now, relaxed in a wingback chair, his ankle clad in a heavy boot resting on the opposite knee, and watched as D’Artagnan slowly regained consciousness where he’d been dropped.

They had not long ago landed, and Rochefort had the boy brought to his chambers in the condition he’d boarded the ship: semi-conscious from a foolish attempt to fight the entire crew of Rochefort’s vessel. Stupid boy hadn’t even the faintest notion of a peaceful exchange, it seemed, and Rochefort had been more than willing to remain civil had D’Artagnan done the same.

But the boy was mouthy, as Rochefort had known he would be, and proud, as he had wanted him to be, and he had taken great pleasure in striking him about the head to bring him to the ground once his men had had their fill of foolish rebellion.

Now, D’Artagnan stirred and shivered, having been deprived of his clothes and weapons and shackled by a heavy chain to the foot of the four-poster bed that dominated the room. A debt had come due, and Rochefort was more than happy to take his time to collect. He said nothing as the young man winced and groaned, bringing a hand to his face to touch against his tender nose and the blood dried beneath it. He said nothing as D’Artagnan took the room in, took in his predicament, and tensed in anticipation. He said nothing as blue eyes found his own, just tilted his head and let his smile unfurl cool across his face.

“Such laziness, Gascon, will not be tolerated again. You are here as one indebted to me, not an invited guest.”

D’Artagnan’s lips peeled back in a snarl. He had to have been expecting this, no doubt bracing for it. Still, he drove himself back across the floor, to the very extent of the chain, and then yanked his foot uselessly against it. 

Rochefort had been careful. There was not much space for the boy to move. He could sprawl out on the bed, if he decided obedience suited him. If he crawled towards Rochefort and stretched out as much as the chain allowed, his mouth would have been at the perfect height for fucking. 

But he could not reach the bookshelf, the table, the chamber pot, the washbasin. D’Artagnan’s choices were the bed or Rochefort himself, and anything else would be a mercy granted for good behavior. 

There would be no good behavior immediately, of course. The boy was as coarse and unfinished as he’d been years ago, when he had first offended Rochefort and worked his way into his debt. 

“You’ve let the interest build, boy. What’s to be done about that?”

Shivering on the cold, hard floor, D’Artagnan reached for a defense. “I can repay you-“

“You cannot,” Rochefort interrupted, “I’m well aware of the situation you’ve come from. Lie to me again and you will quickly learn what sort of discipline I employ here.”

Reaching for the bed, the boy leaned heavily against it to pull himself to his feet. He wavered when he got there, no doubt suffering from the blow he’d sustained. He looked from the bed to Rochefort, so clearly pleased, and then reached for a blanket to preserve his modesty. 

Rochefort was on him before he could, one hand wrapped tight enough around the boy’s wrist to feel the bones grind together. With the other, he backhanded him sharply, then caught his chin while he was still reeling. 

“You don’t conceal yourself from me, do you understand?” There was a trickle of blood seeping from D’Artagnan’s lip. Rochefort lapped it up, his grip tightening painfully when the boy struggled. “You are more than welcome to warm my bed,” he murmured, “but everything in this room is mine, including you. You have no claim to it, and you don’t touch what you haven’t been welcomed to.”

The young man made a pained sound but for the moment didn’t make his situation worse. He stared down Rochefort until the other raised a brow and then looked away, displeased. He had known that the debt would come due eventually. He had hoped, however, that by the time it had either he himself was monied or Rochefort was dead.

“What am I to do, then?” He muttered.

“Obey.” Rochefort let him go, watched as trembling fingers moved to touch his hurt wrist, move over his jaw. “You owe a debt. Any honorable man pays what he owes.”

“And you would take it from my flesh?”

“Of it.” Rochefort corrected, amused. “And I will take, D’Artagnan, with your compliance or without, what I am owed. You have your life, the rest you earn.”

The boy glared at him, jaw set, eyes narrowed. “I will die in such conditions.”

“Will you?” Rochefort smiled. “You will be fed and watered. No hard labor is pressed upon your shoulders, nor the gaol. You have it better, spoiled boy, than many.”

“I’m cold.”

“There is a bed that you may sleep in, once I’ve used you to my satisfaction.” Rochefort pointed out, catching the boy’s chin again. “I’m hardly a fiend.”

“I would rather freeze,” the boy spat back, but already his skin was flecked with goosebumps. Without a fire, the room  _ was _ cold, and a fire would not be lit until the boy learned his manners. Rochefort had endured less comfortable accommodation for less reward.

“Then freeze,” Rochefort said simply, “But the sun has only just set, and the room will grow colder.”

He could have D’Artagnan squirming and unwilling, and he intended to, as many times as he could before the boy’s training took. But the first time, and indeed many times, he would have D’Artagnan take part in his own undoing. 

Rochefort released the boy with a patronizing pat to his cheek, retreating to his chair. He picked up a book, flipping mindlessly through its pages, waiting. 

“That’s it?”

Rochefort peered over his book at the boy. “I read before bed, unless a better option presents itself. In about half an hour I’ll turn out the lights and get into bed. You may join me, if you’ve chosen to be more pleasant, or you can sleep right where you are.”

D'Artagnan released a displeased puff of air and turned deliberately away. For the time being, both seemed prepared to test the other's patience. And from what Rochefort had seen, from what he had heard through rumor, D'Artagnan had little of it.

True to form, once Rochefort blew out the candles, the boy glanced over his shaking shoulder to follow his movements about the room. He watched as Rochefort undressed, careful to set his clothes neatly aside. He'd expected there to be an attendant, two perhaps. He'd expected the man to be waited on hand and foot, but no one else was here.

In fact, D'Artagnan hadn't seen anyone since he'd come to. He didn't even know where they were.

In sullen silence he watched. His body was so cold now that he had to press his teeth hard together to stop them chattering. As Rochefort climbed into bed, D'Artagnan turned his face away, chin jutted forward, trying to keep his pride.

Surely once the man slept he wouldn't notice a blanket missing. There were many, of different weights and makes, carpeting the bed. So D'Artagnan waited, and shivered, and suffered. And then quietly, he reached for a corner of warm woolen weave and tugged.

Immediately, the bed shifted. Before D’Artagnan could pull away, a warm hand wrapped around his wrist. It was almost burning on his frigid skin. 

Rochefort looked at him with alert eyes, no trace of sleep on his features. D’Artagnan swallowed around a lump of fear as he was pulled to his feet, yanked close enough for Rochefort to press heated lips against his ear. 

“Have you decided to accept my offer then, pet?” Came the chilling whisper. D’Artagnan tugged fruitlessly at the iron grip that held him closer. 

“I don’t-“

“Because,” Rochefort continued, dragging D’Artagnan onto the bed with a humiliating lack of effort, “The other option is that you were trying to steal from me. I’d hate to need to climb out of bed and redress to whip you bloody. I can’t promise a steady hand, as tired as I am.”

"You're monstrous," D'Artagnan tried, though the conviction was stolen from his voice with how hard he was shaking; as much from cold as panic.

"Answer me, or I will assume your evasion is admittance to theft."

"Why are you doing this?" The boy asked, brows drawn. He was tired, he was cold, humiliated and beaten. Or so he thought, for the moment, innocent thing that he was. His fight was merely dormant, not yet defeated.

"Because you owe me a debt, Gascon, one you chose not to pay for years thence. You've only yourself to blame."

"Why my body? Why not take my life?"

Rochefort drew a knuckle down the boy's jaw, holding him tight to allow for little movement. "Do not assume, boy, that because I did not give you death, that I did not take your life. Now tell me, are you a thief as well as a coward?"

D'Artagnan flinched, cheeks dark in his anger. "I am neither. I am a musketeer."

"You are a silly boy chasing a hoop with a stick," Rochefort countered, dragging the young man closer, finally enveloping him in the almost painful warmth of the blankets, pressing his bare chest to the boy's back to pin him down. "Will you fight me?"

"Until my last breath."

"You are stupid, if think that brave. By all means, show me your ire. Test my patience with you. I will take my fill of you regardless. The suffering you will endure you will dictate yourself."

The boy writhed beneath him, one foot lashing out as if in a child’s tantrum, a fierce, moody kick against the sheets. Rochefort held him easily, despite D’Artagnan’s best efforts to strike at him. He kept him that way until the boy tired, efforts beginning to waver. Only then did Rochefort collapse properly onto him, allowing the boy to feel his arousal against his backside. 

D’Artagnan felt a chill even through the heat of the bedding, of his captor’s body. He knew the ways lovers came together, what was no doubt expected of him, and he felt a sudden surge of panic. 

“No!” He gasped, reaching out for the edge of the bed. He gripped it tight, as if to drag himself over it. 

“Yes,” Rochefort corrected, reaching for the oil he’d concealed when he first slid into bed. “It’s this or the lash, boy, and a little blood is unlikely to keep me from seeking my pleasure.”

D’Artagnan kicked out again, fingers dragging uselessly through layers of warm bedding, doing nothing more than make a mess as Rochefort fitted himself between his thighs. 

“I told you the price of sharing my bed, boy, and it’s one you’d have paid anyway once I tired of waiting. You may as well allow yourself some comfort from it.”

“Comfort!” D’Artagnan spat, outraged, but then a slick finger began to ease its way into him, and his words were lost to a startled cry. 

A sharp smack against his thigh brought another cry, louder, from him next.

"Your struggle will only bring you pain, Gascon, not me."

"Please don't. I've -"

"You'll learn."

"I don't want to!" It's the most tearful Rochefort had heard the boy, and the sound was very pleasing indeed.

He leaned over D'Artagnan, pressing his finger in deeper. "And yet, you will."

The boy attempted to struggle once more, the warmth returning to his body now and giving him even a little extra strength. He twisted, shoved his knees against the bed, the heels of his hands. He struck out, back against the body pinning him, tried to catch his hair, to tug, to hurt.

Rochefort shoved him hard into the pillow, enough to muffle the next whimper of pain as he worked a second finger into his reluctant bedmate.

"You should thank me," Rochefort told him, tone calm as he controlled the struggling thing with seemingly no effort at all. "I could have chosen to not prepare you at all. If this is my thanks, perhaps next time I will not."

As he spread his fingers D'Artagnan keened, helpless and little, before going completely still, trembling, beneath him. He was rewarded with a brief curl of the Compte's fingers.

D’Artagnan felt a ripple of almost-pleasure, a sensation that burned in his belly and sparked at the base of his spine. Rochefort rubbed over that spot again, slow and purposeful. 

“There, you see? There can be pleasure in it for you, as well, if you please me. I can just as easily leave you wanting.”

A third finger was worked into him. D’Artagnan bit back a wail, muffling himself in the pillows. The stretch was too much, even as Rochefort continued to seek out the spot that made him shudder. It was a confused, aching pleasure, one that D’Artagnan was not sure he could enjoy, even as a jerk of his hips forced his erection against the bed. 

Rochefort pulled his hand away, wiping excess oil on the back of D’Artagnan’s thigh. D’Artagnan lost control of his terrified little whimpers, shaking his head as Rochefort pressed his cock between his thighs. 

“Please,” D’Artagnan whispered, all pretense of fight gone, at least for now. He would not fight his way free of this, but that didn’t stop the words, the trembling plea for mercy that spilled from him. 

In the morning, he would think himself weak, pathetic. Now, D’Artagnan cared only that Rochefort’s cock was nudging against his hole, that no amount of squirming would dislodge him. 

"Be good," was all Rochefort said, a low growl of warning before he pushed forward. The breach was eased by the oil but the smaller body beneath did everything in its power to keep him out.

No matter.

He could be patient here too.

It took long moments of trembling and twisting, D'Artagnan biting the pillow to stifle the sounds he was unable to keep behind his teeth. Because it  _ hurt _ . It hurt and it was unwelcome and D'Artagnan hated it. He hated that he'd wound up here, he hated that he wasn't strong enough to resist the call of warmth and comfort, he hated that years before he had been foolish enough to make such a flippant wager.

Above him, Rochefort shifted, pulled back, the thrust back in was harsher.

Rochefort kept that pace. Fast enough to be pleasurable for him, not nearly cruel enough to damage the trembling thing beneath him. He would be no use if he was broken his first night. He settled his hands to D'Artagnan's hips and lifted them up just enough, feeling his body tense and relax as he found that spot within him to make the boy squirm.

"That's better," he sighed, grasping D'Artagnan by the hair and yanking his head back, arching his neck, curving his back into a very pleasing shape. "You'll take what I give you and be thankful for it."

D’Artagnan’s teeth were bared, but the boy’s body betrayed his pleasure. The tight, anxious clench from the beginning had eased, allowing Rochefort to fuck him smooth and quick, pushing little cries from his throat. 

He made beautiful sounds, little gasps of forced pleasure that sounded almost offended that he’d been brought to this. D’Artagnan struggled to ease the bend of his back and only earned himself Rochefort’s teeth against his throat, grazing in warning over the flutter of his pulse. 

D’Artagnan was overwhelmed, forced up onto knees and elbows, cock hanging untouched between his thighs and yet still so hard. It was humiliating to be brought to pleasure by this man’s cock, by the push and pull of their bodies. He almost wished the pain had continued, but while he could feel a dull ache building, D’Artagnan could not deny what else was also building. 

Rochefort seemed to know just how to fuck him, aiming unerringly for that spot inside him, sucking a mark under D’Artagnan’s jaw and pulling a whine from him. 

Slowly, D’Artagnan’s terror was forgotten, replaced with a need he could not resist. He squirmed in Rochefort’s grasp, desperate to rock himself against the bedding, to seek completion so he could let hatred build within him again. 

At some point, later, Rochefort would take his time. He would take the boy's cock in his hand and make him fuck himself between his cock and hand. He'd pull D'Artagnan up against him, back to chest, and fuck him as he whipped the skin of his thighs until the boy wept for relief.

Another time.

This night, he pressed his teeth against D'Artagnan's throat and thrust in deep, pulsing his release within the boy. He cared little for the other's pleasure. For his obedience, he'd be allowed his relief, if he followed the rules.

Pulling back, Rochefort allowed the boy his freedom with a shove, laying back in bed himself with a sigh. He stretched, satisfied and comfortable, drawing up his knee and lifting his chin towards the ceiling. He could feel D'Artagnan's eyes on him, allowed the corner of his mouth to tilt.

"Sleep, Gascon. I may yet use you again."

In the dark, D’Artagnan whimpered. He was aching, hard between his legs, raw and sore in places he’d never been before. He was  _ leaking _ , a trickle of damp against his thighs. He wrapped himself in a blanket, squirming away towards the edge of the bed, putting as much space between them as he could. 

Rochefort laughed at him, soft and dark as he curled into his own blanket. “Do you imagine wool will protect you from me, pet?”

D’Artagnan scowled at him and threw the blanket over his head, ignoring the second bout of laughter that followed. 

Sleep would not take him. Nervousness and nausea warred in his stomach, a fear of just how soon Rochefort might find the desire to “use” him. Use. As if he were some sort of toy to be played with and then put away into the dark. D’Artagnan shuddered. 

More than the fear, there was the discomforting arousal to consider. Despite his best efforts to resist, the contact had felt good. He hadn’t known it could feel that way with a man, had not wanted to think too hard about what lovers did alone. He knew that it was generally considered rude to leave a lover hanging, though, and he now understood why. 

He’d been told as a youth that he would understand a man’s cravings once he'd felt them. That he too, would be regularly crude and wanting, once he knew what it felt like. D’Artagnan knew, now, what distraction felt like. 

He wanted nothing from Rochefort, neither pain nor pleasure, but his cock pulsed between his thighs, near painful in wanting, and all D’Artagnan wanted was to sleep. He rolled himself onto his stomach, hiding his shamed face in a pillow and letting himself rut. If he was lucky, once would be enough, and he would be better prepared to resist the sensation next time. Not that he would allow Rochefort a place inside him again. 

A very deliberate click of a tongue, and a heavy hand landed against the back of D'Artagnan's neck, gripping it tight as though disciplining a pup.

"How quickly you forget. I own  _ you _ , boy. I own your ass. I own your cock. And I own any pleasure you get from either. You did well enough to be allowed your release but it is for my eyes if you do."

D'Artagnan shivered, rutting a little harder, trying to come before he was forced to move. He gasped when the blanket was ripped from him, when Rochefort grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

"Flagrant disobedience will not deter me from fucking you," he warned. "Do not think that if you earn punishment you will escape me. I will take you regardless, pet. I care little for the pain you suffer."

"I hate you," D'Artagnan breathed, eyes closed tight against the pain in his scalp, the pleasure between his legs.

"Turn over." Rochefort replied, rough. "I will not ask a third time."

The boy trembled, body tense and caught between desire and anger, exhaustion and release. With a shuddering sigh he relaxed enough to be turned, his back against the mattress, his knees drawn up to hide the shame between them.

"Spread your legs."

D'Artagnan whimpered, didn't move to obey. But the ache, the need to touch… slowly, he parted his thighs, enough to free his leaking cock to curve up against his belly.

"Wider."

Even with his eyes closed, he felt Rochefort’s gaze on him like a physical presence. He regretted his decision, regretted ever giving in to pleasure. His body betrayed him in every way, refusing to soften even with cruel eyes watching as D’Artagnan slowly slid his thighs apart, exposing his cock, the heavy weight of his sac, even his entrance, damp and still twitching shamefully. 

A hand settled on one thigh, pinning it against the bed. “Next time you are told to spread, this is how it should be done. Regardless of where we are or what we are doing, I expect quick access to you.” The hand slid across sensitive skin, fingers collecting the seed that had gathered on his thighs. 

D’Artagnan’s cock dribbled fluid against his belly. When Rochefort commanded it, he reached down to wrap a hand around himself. Anything to end this quicker, to return to the safety of the blanket, away from Rochefort’s touches. 

The position would have been humiliating enough, but then D’Artagnan’s body began to respond to the touch. 

Only rarely had he partaken in private pleasures. There had never been enough time, never enough energy when sleep began to tug at him. It was not an unfamiliar sensation for D’Artagnan, but a new one, and he could not help a soft moan of pleasure at the first stroke. 

Gentle, slow. Up to tease the foreskin back, to gather pearly fluid on his fingers and use it to slick the way. D’Artagnan forgot his audience, forgot the hand that pried him open. He focused only on the pleasure, locking the rest away, pretending his circumstances were not terrifying or unwanted. 

He thought of the beautiful girl he'd tried to court, of her smile, of her hair and the way it smelled of flowers and summer. He thought of the freedom of fighting with a sword, he thought of riding his horse far, far away from all of this…

With a whimper he tried to close his legs, pleasure coiling in his belly, just that close to too much, and bit his lip when he was forced wide once more.

His cock twitched with it, and he hated everything about his treacherous body. Only sensation,no emotion to drive it. He thought of sin. He thought of what the Church dictated about such matters, about what Rochefort had done to him…

...and came, hot and slick, over his own belly.

He lay still after, heart pounding and throat working to swallow down the lump that had lodged there, filled with shame and self hatred for what he'd done and enjoyed, for what had pushed him over the edge, in the end.

He licked his lips and turned his head away. "Let me go."

Instead, two fingers swept a trail through D’Artagnan’s release and then forced their way into his mouth. 

“Don’t bite,” Rochefort warned, shoving his fingers deeper until D’Artagnan was choking on them, gagging at the bitterness. “Every time you try to command me, I will remind you who is the master and who is the pet.”

The fingers disappeared, only to return fully slicked once more. Rochefort pinned him with his other hand over D’Artagnan’s throat, and like this he fed him every speck of his seed. 

D’Artagnan sobbed when it was done, rolling onto his stomach and hiding his red face. He had been debased in too many ways tonight, and the reminder lingered in his bitter mouth. 

“It’s an acquired taste,” Rochefort told him, “but you’ll adjust soon enough.”

“I will  _ never _ adjust to any of this,” D’Artagnan growled into the bedding, eyes wet with humiliation. 

“Then you will suffer daily,” Rochefort told him, tucking himself back into his blankets. “It matters not to me. Rest, now. I rise early in the mornings and will need relief. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"How long will you keep me like this?" He asked quietly._
> 
> _"How much is your life worth to you, Gascon?" Rochefort replied easily._
> 
> _“This is not a life.”_
> 
> _“Alright. We’ll have you hanged in the morning.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, tags tags tags! But for this chapter in particular: slapping, very rough non-con sex, strapping, uncomfortable restraints, pee desperation, wetting, humiliation.

Time crawled.

D'Artagnan watched day become night, become day through the floor to ceiling windows that made up one wall of Rochefort's quarters.

He was fed, though it was poor man's fare; certainly not what Rochefort was eating when he broke his fast and ate his supper. He was given water, and it was clean.

He found that if his struggles had not been too fierce the night previous, he had access to the chamber pot as well, throughout the day.

He felt like a dog.

He felt like something less than.

Every night, the Count would mount him, fucking brutally into D'Artagnan until he was satisfied. Every night, if D'Artagnan had not come on his cock, he was forced to spread his legs and pleasure himself under the man's watchful eye, and swallow it after.

His body ached.

His mind was screaming, tormented by boredom and his own thoughts replaying endlessly in the quiet. Thoughts about how his body accepted Rochefort more easily, now. Thoughts about how without the man's eyes on him, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to get hard. Thoughts D'Artagnan did not want, and thoughts he couldn't escape.

On the fifth night, he sat at the bedside, arms over his knees in another futile attempt to avoid the warmth of the bed and hold out. He could hear the man behind him, his breathing slow but regular enough to suggest he hadn't succumbed to sleep.

"How long will you keep me like this?" He asked quietly.

"How much is your life worth to you, Gascon?" Rochefort replied easily.

“This is not a  _ life. _ ”

“Alright. We’ll have you hanged in the morning.”

D’Artagnan jerked, the chain rattling as he scrambled backwards with a look of horror on his face.

Rochefort was smiling, the bastard.

“Not quite done with it yet, then?”

D’Artagnan was silent, staring wide-eyed at this cruel man who could make such suggestions so easily. 

“This is the life you have been allotted,” Rochefort told him, settling back into his warm bedding, “Best adjust to it.”

“Fuck you!”

Rochefort peered at D’Artagnan thoughtfully. This was not the boy’s first attempt at defiance, and it likely wouldn’t be the last, but any time a bit of fire shone through, Rochefort was fascinated. He liked fire. He liked being the one to put it out. 

“Would you like to reconsider, pet?”

D’Artagnan stood, shivering with cold and rage. “I’m not your damned  _ pet _ .”

Rochefort heaved a sigh, as though the whole event was tedious, and slipped from the bed. He was larger than the boy, a mouse of a thing only just fully grown, and now purposefully underfed. He might have been a challenge, given time to grow into his own, but now he was frail and vulnerable. 

Still with teeth, though. When Rochefort took a step towards him, the boy lashed out, unwilling to submit yet again. His fist, aimed for Rochefort’s jaw, glanced off his arm instead as Rochefort blocked him effortlessly. 

He tried again, once more, before his fist was caught and a deliberate twist of it brought D'Artagnan to one knee. He tried to grab out with his free hand and found it kicked aside as easily as if he were a fly to be swatted.

He didn't even see what Rochefort did. It wasn't a kick. It wasn't a shove. But D'Artagnan was on the ground on his back, his wrist twisted far enough as to be truly agonizing. The man didn't let him go, just watched coldly a moment before lowering himself to a knee above the boy.

Left helpless, D'Artagnan spat at him.

"Perhaps not yet a pet," Rochefort ceded, letting D'Artagnan's hand free to yank his hair instead, holding him still. "A feral in need of training. No matter."

The first slap hit so hard D'Artagnan gasped in shock. The second felt to him like it loosened teeth. The way he was held, his head wasn't allowed to swing to glance the blows aside, so he took the full brunt of them, four, five, all to one cheek, until he cried out sounding painfully young.

"Stop!"

Rochefort observed him for a moment, then struck him again, hard enough to make D’Artagnan nauseous with the force of it.

“You’re a willful thing,” Rochefort declared, dragging D’Artagnan back towards the bed, “I’m going to enjoy breaking you of it.” D’Artagnan stumbled after him, neck straining from the tight grip on his hair. 

The chain on his ankle had become a permanent decoration, but D’Artagnan watched in horror as Rochefort pulled more chains up from under the bed. He’d been prepared for this, had probably been looking forward to it, given the smile he now wore.

D’Artagnan kicked and fought as strongly as he could, but it seemed like nothing at all for Rochefort to chain him down, tightening the last ankle chain until D’Artagnan was held completely immobile on his stomach, unable to do more than wriggle in a panic.

Rochefort completed the process with a pillow under D’Artagnan’s hips, propping his ass up and on display. D’Artagnan hid his face in the blanket beneath him, trying to muffle terrified panting. 

Maybe he would work his anger out this way. Maybe he'd hurt D'Artagnan and get off on it like the sadist he was and leave him be for the rest of the night.

Maybe.

He bit down on the blanket and refused to make a sound. He could hear Rochefort's breathing, heavy from the struggle, as he moved around him, but nothing else. He didn't even hear the hiss as the strap moved through the air, he just felt it like a burn across his back. He bared his teeth and told himself to be quiet, to take it like a man, to -

Cry. He was going to cry.

Even in his tempestuous childhood he’d not often been whipped by his father. And it had never felt like this. He was certain his skin was splitting. He was certain he was being flayed alive. And he was making sounds, he was  _ screaming _ .

He just wanted it to stop. Just stop.

"Stop, please just stop!"

"Learn," Rochefort told him, fisting a hand in his hair and lifting D'Artagnan's face from the bed. "Your place. Learn it well. If I tire in teaching you, I have many men to take my place."

"I'll learn! I'll learn just stop!"

"He'll learn," Rochefort laughed, shoving him away and painting another cruel welt across the boy's ass. "Twice you've just commanded me. Twice, you petulant thing. Keep defying me. See how quick a lash becomes a whip."

"I'm sorry!"

"And he lies," Rochefort sighed, as though this truly hurt  _ him _ , and not the shaking thing tethered to the bed. "Perhaps cutting out your tongue would be a mercy to you."

D’Artagnan sobbed helplessly. There did not seem to be a right answer, only more pain. He struggled in his chains as Rochefort struck at his ass, his thighs. His hips jerked against the pillow, frantic, and a new horror revealed itself. 

“No, no no no,” D’Artagnan whispered. He was hard, somehow, despite all this. His cock, trapped between the pillow and D’Artagnan’s own body, ached almost as fiercely as his tender skin. 

“No?” Rochefort asked him, unaware of his plight. “I thought you said you were going to learn.”

He’d painted a beautiful picture up and down the boy’s backside, stripes of pink and red. Some spots were already beginning to bleed. Rochefort aimed for the next pale expanse of unmarked flesh. 

“I won’t have a disobedient pet,” he lectured as he worked, “And I won’t spend every night disciplining you. You will learn to obey, or you will become someone else’s problem.”

With every blow, the boy cried out, writhing against the sheets. His voice broke on his higher wails, and he’d no doubt be too hoarse to complain by morning.

“I’m sure the men would find a use for you,” Rochefort told him, “We could chain you to the dinner table instead and see how long you survive on their seed and their pity.”

He struck at the boy’s back again. D’Artagnan screamed, following the sound with a series of familiar little whimpers. Rochefort watched with interest as his hips jerked down against the pillow, and then had to hold back a laugh. The boy had just made things ten times more interesting for Rochefort, and therefore ten times worse for himself.

D’Artagnan panted against the pillow, mortified as he tried to squeeze his thighs together, hoping to somehow hide the truth from Rochefort. He failed miserably, Rochefort’s hand shoving between his thighs to cup his damp and spent cock, squeezing uncomfortably tight.

“Were you told to seek pleasure, pet?”

He just sobbed, helpless to his pain, his pleasure, his humiliation. He just wanted to die. He just wanted not to exist anymore. He had no correct answer for Rochefort, he doubted there was one. So he just let himself cry as the man pulled back and spread his mess against D'Artagnan's thighs.

The wetness made the blows that fell upon him strike sharper. Or perhaps it was just his body finally reaching a limit to the things he could bear. Several came down in quick succession before the strap was tossed aside, clattering to the floor in the dark somewhere.

When a hand grasped his hair again D'Artagnan wailed.

"No more, please no more!"

"My arm is tired," the Count told him flippantly, coming around to look at the boy's face, patchy and wet with tears and snot and spit. The cheek he'd punished was going to bruise, already a little puffier than the other.

Good.

The boy could use a visible reminder of his disobedience.

He let him go, watching D'Artagnan immediately try to bury himself into the sheets again to hide his shame, and walked back to climb into bed behind him. He ignored the keening cries as he used D'Artagnan's own seed as lubricant, ignored the genuine distress as Rochefort fucked into him, hard and fast and claiming, his hips clapping cruelly against the punished and bleeding skin of his thighs and bottom.

When he came, it was with a groan of relief, and he rested his sweaty forehead between D'Artagnan's shaking shoulders a moment before pulling out of him. A sharp cruel spank delivered as a final dismissal.

"You will sleep as you are, filthy thing," the Count told him, gathering a robe to cover himself. "And not leave this bed tomorrow until I see fit to let you. You will learn your place this way, if nothing else will work."

D’Artagnan did not respond. He’d learned today’s lesson, at least for now. 

He slept fitfully. D’Artagnan was chilled, covered and dripping with their mingled releases, his own sweat. The bedding beneath him offered only slight relief, and there was no way for him to burrow or cover himself. He drifted in and out of consciousness, limbs slowly cramping, tense from how tightly he was bound. 

By dawn, he ached everywhere. Semen had dried in uncomfortable flakes across his skin, and he’d been up for the better part of an hour, whimpering and tugging at his chains. He tried to be quiet about it, but there was no way to seek relief for his tense muscles. 

Rochefort rolled directly on top of him the moment he woke, startling D’Artagnan and shifting his limbs painfully. 

“Please,” D’Artagnan begged, “Please, it hurts.”

“I’m sure it does,” Rochefort said, guiding his slick cock to D’Artagnan’s tight entrance. 

It had never hurt like this before, not even the first time. D’Artagnan’s pain had him clenching, unable to relax and let Rochefort in. Each thrust rocked him and yanked painfully at his bound limbs, and added sharp and aching pressure to the morning fullness of his bladder. 

He took what he was given without a word, just agonized little noises, and panted against the bed when the Count was done with him, uncaring that he himself hadn't come, mind too preoccupied with his predicament. He turned his face with a wince, pressing his sore cheek to the bed as he watched Rochefort dress himself.

"I -"

"What could you possibly have to say," the other sighed, coming to stand beside him, head ducked to look at the rather pathetic boy in his bed.

"May I wash?" D'Artagnan asked weakly, and Rochefort raised a brow.

"Can you do so, bound as you are in my bed?"

The boy swallowed. "No."

"Then you have your answer."

"But I -"

Rochefort didn't stay to hear him, leaving the room without a second glance, and D'Artagnan staring in shock after him.

"Rochefort!" He cried out, heart hammering in his chest when he realized the man would not return. " _ Rochefort _ !"

D’Artagnan went through stages. First, the screaming, desperate pleas that must have carried down the hall, but that no one responded to. 

Next came the struggle, writhing in place. Confused sensations: pain as he bruised and scraped his wrists and ankles, pleasure as his cock ground against the bed, suffering as each move reminded him of his urgent need. 

Finally, sobbing. Hysterical at first, and then quiet little cries. Once he stilled, the pain began to ebb, limbs going uncomfortably numb instead. It only meant he was more aware of the torturous pressure in his bladder. D’Artagnan tried to raise his hips or shove up onto his knees, and only succeeded in forcing his stomach more roughly against the pillow. 

He thought perhaps hours passed, too sore and desperate to sleep. It started with a spasm, a small leak as his body jerked. D’Artagnan clenched his thighs, horrified, but it was too late. For a moment, he thought he’d held himself back, but then his stiff jerking sent a fresh wave of pain through his extremities. Startled, D’Artagnan let go. 

It seemed to go on forever. D’Artagnan sobbed horror and humiliation into the sheets, and then began to tremble as the damp bedding grew frigid. He felt disgusting, filthy and sore. Covered in his own seed and filth, Rochefort’s release dry on his ass and thighs. D’Artagnan lay limp in his bounds, praying for relief. 

Rochefort stayed away for several more hours. 

By the time he returned, the boy was frantic and filthy, the Count wrinkled his nose in distaste and came to stand at the bedside again.

"Must I  _ flay _ you?" He asked, bored, as D'Artagnan shook his head quickly. "Will  _ nothing _ sink into that prideful thick skull of yours?"

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"I tried! I t-" he bit his lip and turned his face into the sheets again, shaking. "I'm sorry."

Rochefort considered the lack of fight, the meekness, the mess he knew the boy would make, inevitably. With a hum he crouched beside him, catching his chin in a rough hand.

"You will wash the filth from yourself." He instructed. "Then you will apologize again, and I'll judge your sincerity then."

D'Artagnan nodded, as best he could. He didn't move as he was released, shackle by shackle, from the bed, and when he did it was with a cry.

His wounds ached. His muscles  _ screamed _ . He felt dizzy and sick. When he tried to step from the bed he collapsed with a sharp cry of pain. The Count just regarded him from where he stood.

"Crawl, if you must, but don't dare appear in my presence so dirtied again."

So he crawled. Slowly and painfully but he crawled to the ewer and the bowl and wet a cloth to clean himself. He took the time he dared, didn't notice that an attendant had come in to strip the bed and remake it, didn't notice that a fire and been lit, didn't notice anything at all but that his limbs no longer tingled when he moved them.

When he returned to the Count it was on shaky legs, but scrubbed as clean as he could manage.

The man sat in his chair, fingers pressed to his temple as he watched D'Artagnan move. He said nothing. He didn't have to. The boy knelt without prompting and bit his lip.

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

"For acting so poorly when you offered me leniency," the boy whispered.

Rochefort hummed thoughtfully. “And for your mouth?” He suggested, “For your attempts to command me, for your refusal to obey?”

D’Artagnan nodded stiffly, which was at least somewhat of an improvement. Rochefort tangled his fingers in the boy’s hair and yanked his head back. 

“Tell me you’ll be a good pet from now on.”

“I… I’ll be good.”

Rochefort backhanded him and watched the boy sob and tongue at his bloody lip. 

“I’ll be a good p-pet from now on.”

“Better.” Rochefort released him, flinging the boy to the floor just to watch his aching limbs refuse to hold him. It would be hours before he moved properly again, a lost and needy little fawn. “Get into bed. I want you to apologize properly.”

Distress colored D’Artagnan’s features, but he moved without a single second of hesitation. He crawled onto the bed, struggling to keep on all fours and bracing himself on a pillow instead when his quaking limbs refused to hold him. He spread his thighs obscenely wide, ass tilted up, face red and turned away. 

Rochefort enjoyed the view for a moment before levering himself from his chair and taking his time to pace to the bed. He drew cool fingers over the raw skin, between D'Artagnan's legs just to watch him squirm,but not move to hide himself.

He hummed, a single note of consideration and stepped away again.

"On your back," he instructed, starting to undress himself as he watched the boy obey. He did so slowly, wincing as he pressed his tortured back to the sheets. Rochefort watched him lick his lips, squeeze his fingers in the blankets before spreading his legs as Rochefort had him do every time D'Artagnan took his own pleasure.

This time, the sound he made was very pleased indeed.

Humiliation, not pain, would be this boy's teacher it seemed.

When the Count climbed into bed, straddling the boy beneath him he caught his chin to turn D'Artagnan to him.

"Eyes on me, pet."

Blue eyes, wide and slightly glazed, found Rochefort’s chin. A good attempt, for one so scared and out of his head. 

Rochefort was tempted to bind him this way just for the beauty of it, but he believed in rewarding behavior he wanted to see repeated. 

“Open.”

D’Artagnan’s lips parted, the command ingrained from days of being fed his own release. Rochefort rubbed two fingers against his tongue, gathering saliva rather than choking the boy, though he was clearly braced for it. 

Rochefort eased him open with spit-slicked fingers, watching the minute flickers of his face. The boy’s eyes fluttered shut when Rochefort curled his fingers and rubbed, coaxing whimpers from his lips. 

He’d had the boy daily, at least once, and his body was growing used to the penetration. Rochefort took only the time he needed to make the entry comfortable before he replaced his fingers with himself and leaned over D'Artagnan with a pleased groan.

"Eyes, pet," he reminded him, a low growl that didn't carry anger but sent shivers through D'Artagnan anyway. He blinked his eyes open, still not meeting the Count's but far more obedient than the days before.

He did his best to keep them open as Rochefort enjoyed him this way; the angle was different, pleasure came slower but lasted longer, bright through the dull pain at D'Artagnan's back and thighs, enough to have him bite his lip and shiver, fingers tensing and relaxing in the sheets as he clung on like his life depended on it.

He looked helpless.

He looked as close to perfect as Rochefort could expect, with so little training. 

Rochefort drew a hand over the boy's chest, tweaking a nipple with practiced fingers, pleased when it drew a keening little whimper from the young thing beneath him. He would be beautiful when he learned. When he obeyed. When he met Rochefort's eyes properly, offered himself willingly, begged for the debasement he so feared right now.

Soon, those long legs would spread on cue, whenever they crawled into bed together. In time, Rochefort would teach the boy to be responsive, as well, to arch and writhe and fuck himself onto Rochefort’s cock. Rochefort would always enjoy mounting him, but he would teach the boy to ride as well, to bring Rochefort pleasure with his body, and perhaps earn his own pleasure as well.

It wasn’t rough. Not like it had been that morning, or the night before. D’Artagnan’s body welcomed the intrusion now, the stretch easier. Rochefort moved slowly, touching D’Artagnan as he had not before.

Gentle fingers teased over his nipples, trailed soft over his sides. There were places that sang when touched, places that brought the heat in D’Artagnan’s belly to a low simmer. He struggled to keep his eyes open, shuddering moans rocking his body as Rochefort picked up his pace.

“Just like this, pet,” Rochefort told him, “There will be no second chance. Show me you can be good.”

He made it easy for the boy, dropping lower so his cock was trapped between their bellies, a constant grind as Rochefort fucked into him. Generally, his pleasure mattered little to Rochefort when it came to a good fucking; he would find it, or he wouldn’t, and either way Rochefort would get a show. If, however, he could draw the connection between pleasure and being fucked, then it would take little to make the boy frantic for it. 

D’Artagnan squirmed, fisting his hands in the sheets so he didn’t do something stupid like tug his own hair, or press a hand to his mouth, or  _ reach out _ to the man above him. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to keep his eyes open as Rochefort took him and made him like it.

His cock leaked between them, rubbed and stimulated and leaking drop by drop to make a mess over their bellies. More and more D’Artagnan found it impossible to keep his sounds behind his teeth. He whimpered and whined, gasping quietly when Rochefort found his prostate and teased against it.

He refused to admit how good this felt.

He refused to admit that he’d been beaten.

But when Rochefort pressed in  _ just so _ , his quickened breath hot against D’Artagnan’s cheek, he came with a weak little cry and drew up his knees in pleasure, toes pressing to the bed and thighs trembling as he rode out his orgasm and Rochefort fucked him through it. When the Count finished within him, sharp rutted thrusts pushing him deeper and deeper into D’Artagnan’s tortured body, the boy lay still.

He blinked at the ceiling and caught his breath, and let his eyes flick to Rochefort’s as the man pulled out of him and held himself over D’Artagnan on strong arms.

He said nothing, demanded no words from D’Artagnan either, perhaps his actions had been enough to suggest his humility and obedience for the night. He was permitted to clean himself, to relieve himself. There was no dinner - another punishment, D’Artagnan supposed - but there was water that he was allowed to drink. By the time he returned to bed, he could barely keep his balance.

He didn’t fight it when the shackle was attached to his foot again, binding him to the bed once more.

A day without food, without motion, with very little to drink. D’Artagnan’s body screamed at him as he crawled into bed, his place earned for the night. He curled his limbs up into a tight ball, almost afraid to stretch out and find the same pain he’d felt all day. 

There were tears pricking at his eyes, frustration and exhaustion both. He was chilled even beneath the wool, and he caught himself staring longingly at Rochefort, spread out on the other side of the bed and by all accounts fast asleep.

They were not lovers.  _ I’ll be a good pet _ echoed in D’Artagnan’s head, and he did not bother to correct it. There was no point. They were not lovers, and D’Artagnan would not expect the tenderness that went hand in hand with love. 

But he was shaking now, though the room could not have been so cold, and if he was quiet and careful, perhaps Rochefort would not even notice.

Rochefort caught him just as he wriggled close enough to feel body heat. He sighed and wrapped an arm around D’Artagnan’s waist, drawing him in to rest his head on Rochefort’s chest.

“I’m too tired to punish you, pet, be still.” A heavy hand landed in D’Artagnan’s curls, pinning him in place. Rochefort tugged gently at his hair, untangling knots and rubbing at the nape of his neck exactly like D’Artagnan had once pet dogs. In a haze of pain and fear, it felt too good to be ashamed of it. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and listened to Rochefort’s breathing, enjoying the soft touches while they lasted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You detested belonging to me so badly, I thought you might wish to try something else on for size,” Rochefort told him. To the men, he said merely “Enjoy.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BIG WARNINGS FOR THE CHAPTER FOLKS** this one contains gang rape that is fairly graphic, in the second part of the chapter. Just a heads up, we have tagged everything already and it _is_ a dead dove fic but... another heads up just in case!

Morning dawned painful. D’Artagnan’s body screamed in agony, his muscles perhaps warmed to laxity by sleep but the abrasions and cuts the strap had left on his skin stinging as cruelly now as the night they were made. And he was so hungry.

Rochefort did not fuck him that morning, instead he drew lazy fingers through his hair and tugged it just once before letting the boy go and climbing out of bed himself. He said nothing, but he also demanded nothing. As D’Artagnan watched him from the nest of blankets in the bed, Rochefort did not force him to leave it, he did not make the boy prostrate himself on the cold stone floor.

As he passed on his way out the door, leaving D’Artagnan alone and bored for another day, he nudged the chamber pot near enough for him to use.

The suggestion alone made D’Artagnan blush furiously in humiliation.

When food was brought, he ravenously ate it, quick enough that for several hours his stomach ached from that too, in awful mockery of the hunger pangs he’d been trying to drown.

By the time the sun was higher in the sky and D’Artagnan had regained some of his strength, he was in pain and livid. How could he have debased himself so the night before? Not only getting on his knees to apologize for his behaviour, but  _ spreading his legs _ like a whore for the count to take him as he’d wanted? And after, crawling close to his tormentor for  _ comfort _ .

No.

D’Artagnan could not live with himself if that was what he would become here. He was a musketeer, a man of honor, a man of pride. He was no one’s pet, good or bad.

When the midday meal came, he didn’t touch it.

Rochefort did not expect an obedient pet when he returned. No one trained up so quickly, and the boy had a fury to him that would be difficult to quash. Still, he was caught off guard by the level of  _ anger _ that radiated from him, fierce and bright and directed entirely nowhere, since he would not dare cast disdain towards Rochefort so soon after a beating. 

The boy had curled up on the floor, against the foot of the bed. Rochefort had brought fresh bread for them both, but there was no need. He nudged the full plate, abandoned on the floor, with his foot. “Supper, pet.” He said pointedly.

The boy didn’t dare draw Rochefort’s ire towards him, but he scowled at the plate as though Rochefort had offered him poison. There was a slight sorrow in his eyes, a hesitance. So, that was the game they were playing?

“You may as well eat, pet. I’ll have you whether you’re conscious for it or not.”

D’Artagnan flushed and looked away. Rochefort disregarded him and returned to his meal.

He could  _ hear _ the boy’s stomach growling when he was finished, but D’Artagnan made no move towards the plate. Rochefort put it out of reach on the table so that it could be cleared away, rather than drawing rats. He’d be desperate by morning, to be sure, and Rochefort would enjoy making him earn it.

D’Artagnan flinched when Rochefort approached, pressing back against the bed with a hiss of pain. “I don’t want to sleep in the bed,” he growled.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

A click of his tongue and Rochefort continued to look down at the boy who was not quite cowering, but close. Pain was aversive, it was meant to be. Until properly trained to respond to it, he supposed D’Artagnan would react this way after a particularly well-deserved beating. It would hardly get in the way or Rochefort’s plans for him.

“Then you’re welcome to sleep on the floor, should you choose to martyr yourself, once I’m finished with you.”

“But -” the boy had a moment to stare before he scrambled up and tried to move as far as the chain would let him, yelping in pain when he tugged too hard or pulled one of the slowly healing cuts enough to have it seeping again.

“You said - you wouldn’t touch me if I didn’t sleep in the bed you said -”

“Lying will be punished, Gascon, as you well know. Do not put words in my mouth.”

“You  _ said _ -”

D’Artagnan wasn’t fast enough to avoid the grip that landed in his hair and yanked him back towards the bed, but he did struggle against it. Childish panic bubbling up in his throat at the thought that he had lost even that tiny amount of control over his fate.

He hadn’t even had it a week.

“Please, I don’t - I’ll just sleep on the floor, I’ll be cold, I’ll -”

“You’ll  _ obey _ .” Rochefort shoved him face-first over the edge of the bed, striking at the welts on his ass with the flat of his palm. D’Artagnan shrieked like a frightened child, reaching back to cover himself. Rochefort grabbed both wrists with little effort and pinned them against the small of his back.

“Please,” D’Artagnan sobbed into the bed, “Please, I can’t do it anymore, I can’t.” He squirmed in the tight grip, bare feet sliding against the stone floor. Rochefort kicked them apart and stepped between them, the fabric of his pants rough against D’Artagnan’s injuries.

“You were told there was a bed to sleep in, should you choose to warm it,” Rochefort reminded him, “And you chose, pet. I’ve had you so many times that you must be more full of me than yourself. The deal was struck. You don’t have enough flesh on your body to incur another debt.”

“Kill me,” D’Artagnan whispered into the blankets, “Just kill me and get it over with.”

“I’ve no intention of killing you,” Rochefort said, releasing D’Artagnan to reach for the oil, “But should you keep up this behavior, I’ll make you wish I did.”

The boy immediately slipped his hands down to his chest and clung to the blankets as he shook. He didn’t try to kick out again, he knew without a doubt that if he retaliated he  _ would _ be beaten again and he wasn’t sure he would survive it. He could feel tears hot at the corners of his eyes and closed them tight, refusing to let the count see him cry.

He still whimpered when familiar fingers breached him to spread him open. He still cried out when Rochefort pushed harsh into him and started a punishing rhythm. He whined and keened and sobbed into the bed until his anger overtook his fear, and he bit down and kept his sounds to himself.

A laugh, low and rumbling, was enough of an indicator for D’Artagnan that Rochefort had noticed, but he sullenly refused to make a sound for the duration of the fucking. When he was finished, the man left D’Artagnan bent over the bed, thighs slick with the seed that slipped from his ass. He didn’t touch him, he just looked, long enough for D’Artagnan to shift uncomfortably and press his thighs together.

“Bring yourself to completion as you are,” he said finally, offering a very deliberate smile when the younger man looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. “As you are, pet. Show me how good you are when you rut properly.”

D’Artagnan was mortified, his entire body responding to the words in confusing, conflicting ways. His cock twitched against the sheets, his muscles tensed, his mind whirled a million miles an hour imagining how animalistic he would look, humping the bed because he’d been ordered to.

Because he was a  _ pet _ , not a human being.

But he thought of the lash again, of the pain that had throbbed through him all day, and buried his face in the sheets as he obeyed, fucking rough and quick against the side of the bed, forcing his orgasm closer to make this humiliation end.

Rochefort left him to it, let him drive mindlessly at the bed like Rochefort’s good little dog, until his thighs pressed together and his legs began to quiver. Then he gripped a handful of D’Artagnan’s hair, turning him so they faced each other. So that D’Artagnan could see full well the pleased smile on Rochefort’s face as he thrust one more time and came with an audible gasp over the blankets. 

For a moment, Rochefort held him there, eyes drifting over D’Artagnan’s red, tear streaked face. Then he released him, taking a step back and pointing at the floor.

Mortified, D’artagnan dropped to his knees, hating himself for it every second.

“You know what to do, pet. I won’t sleep in a sullied bed.”

D’Artagnan turned stiffly, eye-level, now, with the mess he’d made. The liquid was beginning to set into the wool. When he reached for it, Rochefort tsked. D’Artagnan jerked back like he’d been burned, terrified of Rochefort’s displeasure.

“No hands.”

The boy’s brows drew, expression pleading and frightened, but after a moment he turned his face to the bed to obey, tongue seeking out to lap up the cooling fluid as best as he could manage with no hands to hold the fabric. When he was finished, he didn’t dare look up again, but the quiet hum and the count stepping aside to climb into bed was answer enough that he’d managed to appease him for the moment.

Rochefort didn’t tell him to stay on the floor, nor did he command him into bed. So for a long time D’Artagnan sat where he was, shivering from the cold as he tried to process what had happened, what would continue to happen to him despite his attempts to make it end.

He thought of Rochefort’s flippant reply that he could have D’Artagnan hanged. He thought about how still,  _ still _ , he feared that more than what his life had now become.

Cowardly, foolish, stupid boy that he was.

It was hours later when he climbed into bed, curling up as far from the count as possible and shivering painfully until he warmed up, sleep taking him deep until morning.

When the dawn came, Rochefort had him on his back again, gripping tight to D’Artagnan’s hair to keep his eyes up. D’Artagnan bit back every noise, every moan and whimper, hard enough that his lip bled.

This only seemed to amuse Rochefort. He licked over D’Artagnan’s mouth and fucked him harder, angling right for his prostate with unerring accuracy. There were screams and whines bubbling up in D’Artagnan’s chest. He dug his fingernails into his thighs to hold them back, even as Rochefurt plucked and pulled at his nipples in a way that always earned him a cry. 

“Do you think it will make you less appealing to me?” Rochefort asked him, once he’d had his fill and forced D’Artagnan to finger himself to completion. “You’re just a hole to fuck, boy, I could care less if you get off from me or from your own hand.”

He set D’Artagnan’s plate on the floor before he left. D’Artagnan felt nauseous looking at it. He spent the day drifting in and out of awareness, curled up into a tight ball under the covers. It smelled like Rochefort. Everything did. 

D’Artagnan denied himself the midday meal as well, and when Rochefort came home, he gave a loud sigh of displeasure. The room spun when D’Artagnan rolled to look at him.

“By all means,” he almost drawled, “continue to test my patience. It takes many days to starve to death, pet, much more effort than you think. And I will have you regardless.”

And he did. That night and the next morning. He fed D’Artagnan his own slick seed with a sadistic pleasure before slapping his cheek almost gently and leaving him alone.

D’Artagnan lost consciousness the first time on the third day, and found that the count had been earnest in his promises. He still fucked D’Artagnan, still enjoyed his body even as the young man was barely able to move, laying back like a doll just waiting to die.

He wasn’t allowed to do that either.

He almost convinced himself that he was dying for a cause; that he would prove the man wrong, that he had no control over D’Artagnan even if he was physically stronger and had the boy bound. He would prove to him that no one could own a human being, not even a man who considered himself to be above all other men.

He almost convinced himself.

He had started eating again, very slowly, just enough, because his will was not as strong as D’Artagnan had hoped it would be, and he hated himself for it.

And then one night, D’Artagnan woke with a start to find his shackle being removed from his ankle.

“Come along, boy.” Boy, not pet. He was boy most often when Rochefort was displeased with him, and he couldn’t help the whimper that slipped from his throat. 

The meager bits he’d begun to eat again were not nearly enough to keep him steady on his feet. He was still unable to make himself finish the whole plate he was given, and he knew well that even that much was less than he should have been eating. He stumbled badly between the bed and the door, enough that Rochefort heaved a sigh and then swept D’Artagnan off his feet. 

Rochefort was not a sympathetic man, and not prone to coddling. That he was willing to lift D’Artagnan was  _ not _ a good sign, and D’Artagnan trembled in his arms, heart racing as he was borne out of the room.

The men had gathered in the dining hall for dinner, and were just finishing up, plates clearing away slowly. They were loud, excited about something. 

D’Artagnan had been aware of Rochefort’s men only in the vague sense that he had them. He had not seen anyone but Rochefort in weeks. Here in the hall, there were dozens, a small, well-trained army.

D’Artagnan didn’t know what was happening, but he knew enough to be fearful. Hungry eyes tracked their progress to the middle of the room, where Rochefort deposited D’Artagnan directly onto a table.

“I don’t understand,” D’Artagnan said, though he was beginning to.

“You detested belonging to me so badly, I thought you might wish to try something else on for size,” Rochefort told him. To the men, he said merely “Enjoy.”

D'Artagnan wanted to jump from the table, wanted to duck aside from all their reaching hands, wanted to run to the front door and yank it open and escape into the night.

He wanted to, but his body wouldn't obey.

His body, that he had been steadily weakening for days, his body that was still carrying the healing marks of his first beating.

"Wait," he managed, much too quiet. The count didn't turn. In fact he didn't even stay in the room, he just  _ left _ D'Artagnan there and went upstairs, like he was nothing, like he didn't matter.

He tried to grab for the edge of the table but found himself immediately trapped on it, some men surrounding it, nothing more, others reaching out to grab at his weak limbs to tug him closer or hold him down and now the boy was panicking, now he was genuinely scared.

"Wait! Rochefort, don't!"

A hand clapped over his mouth and someone tugged his hair. He was naked, there were no clothes to pull from him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn clothes and that thought struck more panic into him.

"Flighty thing," one man laughed. "Look how well kept he is!"

"Surprised Rochefort's been so gentle with him. Some of the kids leaving his rooms before could barely make it down the stairs."

Laughter, loud and brash and unpleasant and D'Artagnan tried to squirm free, only to find himself yanked up and back, enough that his head was hanging over the edge of the table.

"Still got his teeth, too."

"If he uses them he won't."

"You hear that, boy? You bite and I'll take them out one by one with a knife until you've none left."

Someone spread his legs.

Someone else pinched hard at a nipple and D'Artagnan whined.

His hand was caught and shoved against a cock, already semi-hard, his other was pinned down.

Too many hands, too many bodies, too much, just  _ too much _ -

And then something was in his mouth and he choked, biting down in fear until he was slapped hard in reprimand and whatever he'd tried to fight against was down his throat once more.

Someone stroked his cock.

Someone slapped hard against his thighs until he keened, in pain and fear at once, helpless and terrified. Another strike, and he opened them, well trained and too weak to fight back. 

There was no oil, no lubrication. The men didn’t bother. Somebody spit on his hole, enciting laughter that D’Artagnan barely heard over the rush of his blood and the choked gagging noise he made as the man in his mouth fucked him a little faster, stealing his breath faster than he could catch it. Somebody rubbed their cock against his dry hole. D’Artagnan began to sob.

* * *

When the boy was deposited on Rochefort’s floor, he was filthy. Covered head to toe in seed, some of it still dribbling from the corner of his mouth, his curls matted down with a combination of semen and sweat. Streaks of tears ran through the mess on his face, and he was still crying quietly when he looked up at Rochefort.

There was a dull horror in his eyes, a quiet, desperate resignation. “Please,” he begged in a hoarse, cracking voice, and then he was on all fours, limbs barely supporting him as he crawled the few feet to kneel before Rochefort’s chair. “Please, please, I’m sorry.”

Rochefort tilted his head, watching the boy quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, breath coming faster as Rochefort stayed silent, “Please, I’m so sorry, I’ll be so good. I’ll be such a good pet for you, I’ll do whatever you want, please, just say something!”

Rochefort didn't, he regarded the pathetic little thing a moment more before holding out a hand, palm up. Immediately, D'Artagnan pressed his cheek to it, turned to nuzzle against it like it was the most precious of kindnesses.

It was, the count supposed, considering what the last few hours had been for him.

He hadn't expected the boy back, if he were honest. His men weren't cruel but they were hungry, they were as touch starved and horny as any group of soldiers would be when away from families and easy access to willing and unwilling bodies.

And there were well over a dozen of them, and just one frail boy to share.

But here D'Artagnan was, filthy and shaking, exhausted and riding high in the adrenaline of his panic. There was blood smeared down the side of his face, his own or another's it was unclear. His eyes were glassy and red rimmed, his lips swollen from use.

Bruises were blooming up against his collarbone, higher still at his throat. Scratches from multiple hands lined and crisscrossed his chest, over his thighs.

He was a well-used thing.

And still he knelt before Rochefort and sobbed into his hand and babbled slurred apologies. Here, certainly, was not a boy who wanted death, or even courted it, regardless of how D'Artagnan wanted to appear. He was a survivor,and he was clever.

And perhaps, now, wiser.

"So you can learn," he sighed, catching D'Artagnan's chin almost gently and tilting his head up. "I warned you, boy, not to test my patience."

“I’m sorry,” the boy sobbed again, without hesitation. He held still for Rochefort’s touch, but for the tremors that continued to wrack his weakened body. Finally, Rochefort stood.

“Prove it, then,” He said, leading the way towards the bed, “Show me your contrition.”

D’Artagnan crawled weakly after him, a puppy brought to heel.

* * *

_ For a while the men were satisfied with simple usage. One man would spill into D’Artagnan’s mouth and another would take his place, shoving into his throat before he could swallow. Spit and semen were trailing up his face and into his hair, drying sticky and uncomfortable.  _

_ His legs were held open, after he’d tried desperately to kick away the first man who’d tried to fuck him. A man on each side spread him wide, while someone rutted away inside him, the third person to do so, his path slicked by blood and the release of the men who’d come before him. Even D’Artagnan’s hands were slick as men held him by the wrist and forced him to be gentle. _

_ He’d been soft when the first man fucked him, but the second had been determined, grinding against D’Artagnan’s prostate until he sobbed around the cock in his mouth. _

_ “There you go, see?” Someone flicked a finger over the head of his cock, drawing out a muffled whine. “He likes it, little slut.” _

_ “Of course he does,” huffed the man between his thighs, “Bitch’s been getting it twice a day for weeks now.” _

_ “How many times do you think he can come? We should have asked Rochefort what his record was.” _

_ One. D’Artagnan’s record was one. He tried to shake his head, getting a firm hand over his throat for his trouble and a deep, rough thrust from the man in his mouth. He held himself there, deep enough to choke, to cut off all of D’Artagnan’s air. Someone wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked, hard and fast. D’Artagnan squirmed, trying to kick or roll, anything to get away, but the pleasure built in his stomach, rough and too-quick, until his body jerked and he spilled over himself, lightheaded and fading. They kept going, the man inside him grinding slow over his swollen prostate, the hand around him teasing the wet, oversensitive head until D’Artagnan squealed and choked like a wounded animal.  _

_ The man in his mouth pulled out to come on his face. _

* * *

At the bed, Rochefort waited for D’Artagnan to climb on himself. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the things his boy was covered in, but said nothing. He could be bathed, and would be. The sheets could be changed, and would be.

When the boy had settled on trembling limbs, kneeling, on the bed, the count passed him a cup of water, raising an eyebrow when it wasn’t immediately taken. He held it until D’Artagnan reached for it and started to drink. He emptied the cup quickly, panting when he was done, and tried to catch the count’s eyes as he passed it back.

“H-how do you want me?” he asked quietly. Rochefort regarded him as he worked his shirt open slowly. He imagined the boy had been had every which way at this point. There was blood smeared down his legs to suggest a rough enough entry at least once, and tremors ran over his form again and again. Exhaustion, most likely, weakness, adrenaline, pain…

Rochefort didn’t answer him, just let the boy there, until he had bared himself entirely and joined him on the bed. He lay back, one arm tucked behind his head and coaxed D’Artagnan closer with a crooked finger.

“Astride,” he said, waiting for him to obey with a wince and a whimper, but no complaint. “You’ve ridden horses before, Gascon,” he added. “The motions are similar. Show me what a pretty pet would do.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes fluttered shut. ‘Pet’ was good. ‘Pet’ was safe. ‘Pet’ was a thousand times better than ‘boy.’

It hurt going in, but the way was slick at least. After a moment’s hesitation, D’Artagnan gingerly braced his hands on Rochefort’s stomach.

It hurt just as much coming back up, pain radiating up the base of his spine. D’Artagnan bit back a sob and lowered himself again, rocking slow and steady. There was no adjusting, not now after he’d been used so thoroughly, but when Rochefort swatted his thigh and demanded he go faster, D’Artagnan obeyed. 

* * *

_ “Here, hand him over.” _

_ D’Artagnan was dazed. Another orgasm had been dragged from him, painful and brief. His thighs were sticky. He didn’t resist when he was lifted, passed to a man who sat straddling a bench. Being dropped onto this man’s cock was the easy part. It was when another nudged at his entrance that he panicked, flailing. _

_ “No, no, no, you can’t-” _

_ Someone yanked his hands back so hard he screamed. Someone else shoved three fingers in his mouth to quiet him. _

_ Behind him, the man began to ease his way inside, stretching D’Artagnan wider than he’d ever been stretched, pulling him down until he was fully speared on two thick cocks, shaking as they rubbed mercilessly over his prostate and dragged out his aches. _

_ And then they began to fuck him. _

_ The men who had already spent themselves stood around to watch, some reaching to tug his hair, to slap his skin, to pinch his nipples, just to watch the pained response. Those still waiting watched with rabid hunger, stroking their cocks to the sounds of D’Artagnan’s wails of pain. _

_ He didn’t know how long it lasted, but when he was freed he collapsed to the floor and retched, feeling sick, and full, and disgusting. He wanted to be back behind that closed door, back in that bed he had claimed to hate. He wanted the meals he’d forgone and the steady breathing of the count next to him at night. _

_ He wanted anything but this. _

* * *

He was a lovely boy, truly, almost too pretty to be handsome. Tears suited him.

Rochefort allowed the boy to slow his pace again, not taking pity so much as understanding the physical capabilities of a human body under duress. He wouldn’t punish the boy now for not properly fucking himself when he had taken enough cocks up his ass in one day to put some harlots in the streets of Paris to shame. He watched the tension in D’Artagnan’s thighs, watched the way his stomach quivered with the strength needed to move. He watched D’Artagnan’s soft cock slap against his thigh with every push and pull of his form.

No matter.

He would have him hard again soon enough.

Once he was rested, and fed, and given time to consider the consequences for thoughtless actions.

Rochefort set wide hands to D’Artagnan’s hips and slid them up his back, for the moment uncaring for the mess that gathered at his palms. He held the boy steady, helped guide him down a little rougher, how Rochefort enjoyed taking him, and spilled himself contented into the shaking and sobbing little thing above.

D’Artagnan nearly collapsed on him when Rochefort let him go, and he caught the boy with a hand against his chest as he sat up, pushing his curls from his face as he turned it to meet his own.

“This is what your disobedience will lead to,” he reminded him. “I will not hesitate to throw you to them again if you displease me, do you understand?”

D’Artagnan nodded, a fresh wave of horrified tears spilling over. Rochefort nudged him towards the edge of the bed. He whimpered and went, collapsing to a miserable heap on the floor.

“Up. You’re filthy, and you’ve spread it all over the bed.”

D’Artagnan clutched at the side of the bed, struggling to get his feet under him. His limbs shook, his body screamed at him. This was worse than the day he’d been bound, stabbing in specific places, tearing him apart. He kept trying to push himself, determined to be good, until Rochefort placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. 

“Nevermind. I’ll have someone else take care of it.”

Rochefort disappeared for a moment, leaving D’Artagnan to curl up in a shivering ball on the floor. When Rochefort returned, a familiar face trailing behind him, D’Artagnan couldn’t even sob, freezing like a deer as one of the men from downstairs came towards him. 

“I’m sorry,” D’Artagnan finally croaked, shoving himself backwards across the floor, “I’m sorry, I’ll do better,  _ please _ Rochefort!”

“Hush, boy,” Rochefort called distractedly from over by the wardrobe, “He’s only here to clean you up.”

The keen that came in answer was absolutely terrified, the most scared Rochefort had ever heard the boy, and he did turn, then, to see. Just in case his man had decided to take liberties now that he’d been given a taste. But the soldier had done nothing more than tug D’Artagnan to stand, supporting him with a rough hand on his shoulder as he led him further into the room towards the copper tub. Several moments later a few attendants came in, carrying jugs of water that alternated hot and cold, to fill it. When there was enough water for D’Artagnan to sit in up to his hips, he was unceremoniously made to, as indifferent hands started to scrub him clean.

They were not cruel as they had been downstairs, though the man hardly took note of the whimpers of pain the boy made when certain parts of his body were touched or moved. He did not intentionally harm him. He washed his body clean, tugged his head back to rinse his hair before working soap through it, the soap Rochefort used, D’Artagnan recognized the smell immediately.

Another jug of water to rinse that away and D’Artagnan was set free with a sheet wrapped about him to dry him off. The soldier helped several of the attendants to empty the dirty water out of the tub before it was filled once more, full, this time, and steaming, for Rochefort to enjoy.

He had no one stay to help, after.

He took his time soaking in the water, didn’t even glance at the boy who sat shaking in his sheet on the bed. He wasn’t shackled, yet he hadn’t made a move towards the door, not even when it had been left open with attendants coming in and out.

The count sat in the tub long enough for the steam to disappear, long enough that his limbs felt comfortably heavy. It had been a long day, and he was in no mood to deal with histrionics should D’Artagnan start anything up again. His patience with the boy was running desperately thin, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t just toss him from the window next time he put up a strike like this again.

But as he climbed into bed, the little thing was immediately in his space, seeking touch and warmth, trembling still despite how warm they both were. Rochefort considered ignoring him, considered remaining cold and indifferent until the morning.

But it really was endearing how desperately D’Artagnan sought touch from the hands that had forced such cruelties on him. In the end, he draped a heavy arm over D’Artagnan, palm resting on his hip, and allowed him to settle on his chest, curled small and silent.

The tremors remained intermittent throughout the night, and come morning, Rochefort did not wake D’Artagnan to fuck him. He let him to sleep. He did secure him to the bed before he left, however.

When D’Artagnan woke, with his usual morning fare was a cup of bitter liquid that smelled of herbs. He drank it, uncaring, and let it lull him to deep and painless sleep for the rest of the day.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _D’Artagnan didn’t trip him. He didn’t hurt him or shove him or do anything except settle close against his leg and hold on. In a way a cat might nuzzle about someone’s legs when greeting them at the door. In a way creatures showed affection to their masters._
> 
> _The little thing turned his face against Rochefort’s thigh and said nothing, just closed his eyes and settled warm and heavy when the count didn’t kick him off or push him away._
> 
> _This was new._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oral training, cock warming, and surprisingly soft sex considering _last chapter_.

D’Artagnan slept a lot in general. He was not permitted to touch Rochefort’s things, his chain pulling him up short of the table and the bookshelf, and so there was little else to do. The first few days after he’d been punished, however, were something else entirely. He drank the herbs he was given with each meal, and was lost to dreamless rest until the next one came.

That ended eventually, but the sleep didn’t. D’Artagnan rested, or sang softly to himself. On occasion he touched himself, but that usually pulled him down trails of thought he couldn’t stand, and so rarely managed to achieve release. Mostly, he waited for Rochefort.

When Rochefort came in the evenings, D’Artagnan knelt on the cold floor and ate every bite of food he was given, thanking Rochefort for it even if it still left him hungry. When they went to bed, D’Artagnan spread his legs without being told, or rolled onto his stomach if Rochefort preferred. The first night, Rochefort had inspected him thoroughly until his face was burning, and declared him not healed enough. Instead, he’d taught D’Artagnan to suck him.

It was different when he was allowed to do the work for himself. Rochefort had made a few comments about getting D’Artagnan a tool to practice on, but he’d seemed mostly pleased with his first attempt, sloppy as it was. D’Artagnan couldn’t get very far down, but he’d been thorough with the head, and Rochefort had liked the way he rutted against the bed while he did it. Rochefort always liked to see him driven to arousal from their activities.

After a week or so of this, D’Artagnan realized he was looking forward to Rochefort’s return in the evenings, a break in the monotony his life had become. He learned to recognize the pattern of his feet down the hall, grew excited when he heard the key in the lock.

Some days were worse than others. The days when sleep would not come to him, when D’Artagnan lay awake in the bed, begging for anything to do, anything at all. Chores, even. He would gladly have swept and scrubbed the room for Rochefort, if only he’d been allowed. 

The next time a day like that arrived, D’Artagnan found himself waiting as the sun went down, eager. He’d crawled the full length of his chain, down on all fours, as close to the door as he could get. He wanted to be the first thing Rochefort saw when he came into the room. He wanted a nod of acknowledgement, or maybe even a pat to the head if he was pretty enough today. Maybe he would offer himself early, just to get Rochefort’s hands on him. Rochefort hurt him often, but if D’Artagnan was not in trouble, it was never so much he felt like he was dying. Rochefort’s touch could only be a good thing, with nothing else left.

When the footsteps finally came, D’Artagnan nearly pulled his damn leg off trying to get nearer the door. He’d never felt so desperate for human contact before. He’d never been left so bored with literally  _ nothing to do _ his entire life. He felt like he was going to lose his mind and he  _ needed _ Rochefort right then to ground him back.

The key turned. The door swung open, and D’Artagnan looked up with the most blissed expression he could manage, seeing Rochefort standing in the doorway, for the moment entirely ignoring the boy so near him he could almost touch -

“Again, pet?” Rochefort sighed, noting how tight the boy had pulled his chain again. He hadn’t been as spirited after his men had enjoyed him, but he’d hardly snuffed out to nothing. Rochefort preferred that, he didn’t want a limp creature to keep. But as he stepped deeper into the room, the door swinging closed behind, D’Artagnan didn’t scurry away or try to hide from him. He thought, for a moment, the boy wanted to trip him, and raised a hand to strike him down if his bravery had turned to stupidity again, but…

D’Artagnan didn’t trip him. He didn’t hurt him or shove him or do  _ anything _ except settle close against his leg and hold on. In a way a cat might nuzzle about someone’s legs when greeting them at the door. In a way creatures showed affection to their masters.

The little thing turned his face against Rochefort’s thigh and said nothing, just closed his eyes and settled warm and heavy when the count didn’t kick him off or push him away.

This was new.

Weeks, now, the boy had been his unwilling prisoner, his unwilling partner in bed, but this was the first time he had actively sought out contact when they weren’t shrouded in darkness and covered in blankets. Rochefort hesitated a moment. He had no idea what to actually do now. This wasn’t an offense, per se, because he had never anticipated the boy trying to touch him in a way that wasn’t damaging. And he wouldn’t punish him for no reason, animals needed training and responded to routine. 

And yet…

It seemed unwise to allow the boy to greedily seek out whatever he liked, but it seemed equally unwise to punish a moment where the boy found genuine pleasure in Rochefort’s presence. 

Rochefort settled for a compromise; D’Artagnan could have what he wanted, but on Rochefort’s terms. 

Supper was already prepared, but D’Artagnan’s would keep. Rochefort gently detached himself from the boy’s grasp, pleased to hear a whisper of a disappointed whine. He shifted the table just a bit closer to the bed, so that the boy could join him, though not in a seat, and then settled into his own chair. “Come here, pet. If you’re going to be clingy, you may as well be useful.”

D’Artagnan had gone still when Rochefort pushed him away, worried he’d displeased him, but the second he was called, he scrambled over, still on all fours, too eager and too close to bother standing. Besides, the chain wasn’t long enough to allow it and also allow him to worm his way between Rochefort’s knees.

“You catch on quickly,” Rochefort mused, undoing his pants. He caught D’Artagnan by the hair when he immediately pushed forward, smirking when D’Artagnan moaned. He stroked himself slowly, a scant distance from D’Artagnan’s parted lips. “You’re going to practice today, pet. I don’t want you to suck. I want you to take it as far as you can and hold yourself there. Still, and quiet, do you understand?”

“I understand,” D’Artagnan said. His mouth was watering. He’d never been intrigued by the idea of oral sex, not like this at least, but if Rochefort was pleased, he could stay right there, barricaded in by the warmth of Rochefort’s calves. Someone  _ touching _ him. Something to  _ do _ . D’Artagnan closed his eyes and moaned as Rochefort’s half-hard cock was fed to him, Rochefort’s hand guiding him until his nose pressed into wiry curls.

It was easy like this, but D’Artagnan knew it would get harder, and he was determined to obey. Anything,  _ anything _ other than lying in bed, waiting for Rochefort to finish his meal and his book.

He stayed as still as he could, as the count ate his dinner, sat back and just watched the boy between his legs. He sat as still as he could until the cock he held on his tongue swelled harder and it became more difficult to breathe. He sat as still as he could until, with a whine, he pulled back just a little, just enough to let himself breathe through his nose and keep Rochefort in his mouth like a good boy.

He didn’t make another sound after that, even as his legs began to cramp in the position he was in, even as his fingers grew cold, pressed to the stone floor, even as his own cock grew hard between his legs. He kept Rochefort in his mouth, eyes half open and glazed as he floated in a place his mind had created for experiences like this; not quite real, not quite unreal, just there, on the edge of both. He went here when Rochefort touched his hair or skin gently, when the fucking was so good, so genuinely good, that D’Artagnan could pretend that their mutual pleasure was the intended result.

He hummed quietly when a hand landed in his hair and parsed through the tangle of curls. Rochefort didn’t tug him closer, nor did he shove D’Artagnan away. He just let him be, his legs spread to accommodate his pet between them.

“We’ve finally found a proper use for that mouth, haven’t we pet?” he asked, amused, letting his still-gloved hands stroke over D’Artagnan’s ear, the curve of his jaw, down his throat. “I quite enjoy you like this.”

D’Artagnan gave another little hum, of pleasure, of agreement. Nothing hurt, even though it did. It was painted over by the soft, quiet peace. He thought, vaguely, that he might ask to do this every day. Rochefort was just so  _ pleased  _ with him, touching him so much, his hands so gentle. D’Artagnan never wanted to pull away. He would sleep like this, if only it was possible. Everything was already so fuzzy and quiet.

Rochefort had no doubt the boy was beginning to ache, but if he was pleased to be down there, Rochefort would leave him to it. He’d have all day while Rochefort was gone to ease his hurts. 

Rochefort had been working on a novel, which he’d left on the table. After a moment’s thought, he returned to the beginning. When he read, he read aloud, and though D’Artagnan was likely too far gone to properly enjoy it, a pleased shudder ran through him at the sound of Rochefort’s voice. Kinky little thing. 

Rochefort read until it pleased him to stop, then tugged lightly at the boy’s hair. He was hesitant to go, whining softly when he was pulled away. A thread of spit connected them, and the boy couldn’t seem to look away from it, the corners of his mouth slick with saliva. It pleased him to see that the boy was hard, dripping onto his thigh, just from having his mouth used properly for once.

Rochefort let him breath for a moment, then pulled him back down. As expected, D’Artagnan went hungrily, and his obvious pleasure did not ease even when Rochefort shallowly fucked his mouth rather than leaving him to rest. Rochefort used the boy for another minute or two, until he was certain any last shred of coherence had gone from his eyes, and then pulled him off again.

“That’s not how I want to finish in you, pet. Go ready yourself for me while I start a fire. The winter is coming rough this year.”

D’Artagnan had no idea it was winter, or approaching it. He had no idea of anything but the walls of this room, and the hall in his nightmares. He let the words drift over him, filtering in and then back out. He would worry about them tomorrow. Today, he climbed onto the bed, sprawling out on his stomach. He had not been told to get the oil, so he slicked his fingers with spit instead, reaching back. 

This had become… not so much a habit as a way to stifle his boredom. D’Artagnan hadn’t started touching himself until he no longer felt the sharp agony every motion brought up at the base of his spine. The first time he’d tried, he hadn’t managed even the tip of his finger in before the humiliation forced him to give up.

But he’d tried again, and often, since.

He licked his lips, still tasting Rochefort against them, arched his back and slipped two fingers into himself, just to the first knuckle, just to tease as he rolled his hips down with a soft hum of pleasure. This wasn’t about him. This wasn’t for him. He had been told to ready himself and that was what he was going to do, but D’Artagnan couldn’t deny that there now came a very specific pleasure in touching and being touched.

He could feel Rochefort’s eyes on him even while his own were closed; the gaze lingered on him like a brand and made D’Artagnan shiver.

He wanted to be good. To hear that rough voice against his skin, to feel that cock spread him wide and push in so deep it felt impossible, every time. He wanted to be reminded of the filthy thing he was, aching between his legs as he was mounted, and he wanted to come from that. Just like that. With Rochefort watching him.

And he was, now, watching as the boy slipped his fingers deeper into himself and arched his back in that lovely curve Rochefort adored forcing from him with a tug to his curls. He watched as D’Artagnan rubbed himself against the bed but didn’t rut, watched as he opened himself up with his fingers before slipping them free and spreading his thighs wider.

“I don’t remember teaching you that, pet,” he said, mostly undressed now, catching wide blue eyes with his own when D’Artagnan looked to him. 

D’Artagnan was flush with his own pleasure, but none of the embarrassment Rochefort would have expected to find. It seemed like this, brought out of his own head, the boy could enjoy himself. “I practiced,” he said softly, his eyes dropping to where Rochefort’s cock bulged through the opening in his pants. 

“Naughty little thing,” Rochefort chided, setting the last of his clothes aside. He crawled onto the bed, grabbing the boy by the nape of his neck and shoving his face into the pillows. “Let me see if you’ve done it right.”

D’Artagnan moaned as Rochefort slid two dry fingers into him, and indeed, his body sucked Rochefort in greedily. Rochefort curled his fingers once, to hear D’Artagnan’s sweet little moan again, and then pulled his fingers out to reach for the oil. 

“Alright,” he said, slicking his cock, “You can have your practice, needy slut, so long as it doesn’t interfere with my use of you.” He pressed in slowly, groaning when D’Artagnan pushed back to meet him, more eager than he’d ever been. 

The boy was easy, when he was sweet like this. He writhed beneath Rochefort, rocking between the thick pressure of his cock and the welcoming softness of the bed. He was making the soft noises Rochefort usually had to work to pry from him. He might actually come on Rochefort’s cock today, a rarity that thrilled Rochefort for how sensitive the boy got afterwards, and how red with humiliation.

D'Artagnan whimpered at the word,  _ slut _ , so cruelly slung at him by the men that had fucked him, held him down, hurt him. Yet from Rochefort it sounded like praise, it tasted like 'pet' did on his tongue and D'Artagnan tensed around him, just to feel that harsh intake of breath as Rochefort felt it.

Nails dug briefly into D'Artagnan's side and he gasped, pushing the heels of his hands down against the bed to arch himself back further.

"Pretty pet when you want to be," Rochefort praised him, and D'Artagnan almost came right then and there. He associated the man's voice with the lash against his ass, with the bored commands he gave in bed, with the way he stayed so deliberately near as he forced D'Artagnan to masturbate for him.

Now, he also had his cock, thick and heavy in his mouth, and Rochefort's voice narrating a novel that D'Artagnan couldn't remember a word of.

"How does it feel?" He purred next, catching an arm beneath D'Artagnan to tease a nipple brutally between his fingers. "My cock so deep in you? Tell me."

What came from D’Artagnan first wasn’t words. A helpless whine, leaning into Rochefort’s hand to ease the pressure, only to have him pinch tighter. D’Artagnan’s cock twitched and dripped clear fluid onto the bed, so near to perfect.

“S’good,” D’Artagnan moaned, shuddering when Rochefort released one nipple to pinch and torment the other. “It’s so good, so much. Big and filling me and don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

And it  _ was _ good. So much touch, so much contact. Heat all over D’Artagnan’s body, pleasure curling up his spine, and he knew that when this was over, he’d have been good enough to curl up alongside Rochefort and be held, pet to sleep. 

“I have no intention of stopping,” Rochefort assured him with a laugh. “Keep going. Talk to me until I’m done with you.”

D’Artagnan reached for words that seemed far beyond him. “Hot,” he managed, “Everything’s so warm. I can’t move and-” Rochefort gripped his hips tight and adjusted the angle, striking unerringly at his prostate and forcing a series of startled, pleased whines from him. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please keep touching me, I can’t, I don’t know what to do if you’re not…” 

Rochefort bit a possessive mark into D’Artagnan’s shoulder. D’Artagnan wailed and came, frantic pulses spilling all over the bed, Rochefort’s hand. His jaw dropped immediately, and he sobbed oversensitive little gasps around Rochefort’s fingers in his mouth.

Rochefort filled the boy with a groan, flooding deep into him while he squirmed. When he rolled off, the boy squirmed down the bed without being told, mouthing at the blankets and sucking his mess from them. When he looked up at Rochefort, he was hopeful, his eyes seeking praise.

This could get exhausting, or unwelcome. Rochefort had never kept a lover longer than a night for this very reason: attachment. Not his to them, but theirs to him. And now, D’Artagnan trembling in front of him, bare, spent, beautiful, was looking at Rochefort like he was his entire universe.

It did a lot of a man’s ego, he couldn’t argue that.

And D’Artagnan was hardly a lover.

He lifted his arm, a silent welcome, and let the boy crawl near, closing his eyes with a sigh as the little thing nuzzled at his chest and then settled. Obedient. Quiet. A pet as a pet should be.

“Perhaps I should find you something to do while you laze the hours away in my bed,” Rochefort mused, letting his fingers draw tickling patterns over the bite he’d left on D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Something to practice with. Or on.”

D’Artagnan stiffened a moment before relaxing again, and said nothing. There hadn’t been a question to answer. But he immediately panicked at the thought of another touching him that way, of another making him kneel and take his cock between his lips.

“Perhaps if you behave.”

D’Artagnan nodded softly against Rochefort’s shoulder. He would behave either way, but if Rochefort shared him again it might kill him. He wanted contact, but it had hurt so badly the last time.

Rochester ran a finger over D’Artagnan’s swollen lips. “The question is, wood or stone? Perhaps both, you’ve two holes to fill, after all.”

Not a man. An object. The sorts spoken of only in whispers. D’Artagnan’s entire body relaxed, and he nodded again, closing his eyes to take in a deep breath of Rochefort’s scent. Their scent, now.

“Greedy little slut.”

And still, it sounded like praise.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’ve learned,” Rochefort told him one night, his cock lodged firmly in D’Artagnan’s throat. He’d brought something home with him, but that had been tucked away before D’Artagnan could get too curious about it, too busy wolfing down his food so he could get to his favorite part of the night. _
> 
> _D’Artagnan’s eyes closed. ‘You’ve learned’ was pretty much praise, and he was thrilled to have it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of sex toys and their use, and branding in this chapter. Just a heads up!

Winter cloaked the household in a silent, freezing blanket of snow overnight. D’Artagnan only noticed because the windows allowed him to see, and because he woke to a fire already high in the fireplace, when usually there were just embers from the night before.

He had never been given a shred of clothing, in the entire time he had been here - going on to the second season, now, with winter - and yet the bed was always warm, and always enough for him to be comfortable. He ventured from it to relieve himself, to eat, and for no other reason; he had nowhere else to be.

A new routine had developed as well, with the count and he.

Now D’Artagnan always greeted him on all fours, crawling near and clinging as long as the man allowed before he gently brushed D’Artagnan off and set down dinner for him. Until the boy ate, he wouldn’t move from where he sat. and then, only with permission.

Sometimes, his shackle would be removed and he would be allowed to warm himself by the fire as he took Rochefort’s cock in his mouth and softly sucked. More often than not, actually, the shackle was removed. It was locked during the day, though D’Artagnan had no intention of trying to escape, but at night, now, he found himself free to wander the room if he wanted.

He was usually too exhausted, but the freedom was a reward he knew he’d earned and it warmed him.

Rochefort had kept his promise and presented D’Artagnan with two polished objects, one of wood and one of stone. D’Artagnan had been humiliated to receive them, but they’d become staples of his day. Fucking himself was something to do, after all, and with all the practice he got he could now swallow Rochefort all the way down. Rochefort had been pleased. He’d touched him so softly as he fucked his throat, D’Artagnan had felt like he would burst. 

Days passed like this, weeks. D’Artagnan stopped feeling the boredom. He told himself stories, or practiced his pleasure, or just sat excitedly watching the light change through the window, knowing how close he was to Rochefort returning. 

He didn’t get punished anymore, not usually. Sometimes, Rochefort wanted to tie him down, or to whip him, or both at once, but never to the point he had before. These things were pleasurable now, so much so that the sight of the extra chains or the leather strap would have D’Artagnan hardening. 

“You’ve learned,” Rochefort told him one night, his cock lodged firmly in D’Artagnan’s throat. He’d brought something home with him, but that had been tucked away before D’Artagnan could get too curious about it, too busy wolfing down his food so he could get to his favorite part of the night. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes closed. ‘You’ve learned’ was pretty much praise, and he was thrilled to have it. 

“You’ve become something I can be pleased to own,” Rochefort continued, and that was even  _ better _ . D’Artagnan was so hard it ached, swallowing around Rochefort and struggling to remain a warm, still place for his cock to rest. “I’d like people to know who you belong to, when they see you.”

The boy shivered, eyes glazing as he lazily blinked. His cheeks were warm with blush, his hair a cascade of curls that had grown far too long to be decent. Rochefort would need to get them cut at some point, keep them long enough to be able to grab a handful to hold his boy as he pulled sounds of his pleasure from him.

He allowed D’Artagnan a few moments more of this before slipping his cock free, holding the boy back when his disappointment showed on his face.

“Something new tonight, pet,” he said, tucking himself away and sitting closer to stroke a hand through D’Artagnan’s hair. “You will be good won’t you?”

“Yes.” Immediate, no hesitation. There had been no reason to hesitate for months now, with how truly obedient the boy had worked to become. Rochefort hummed and sat back to regard him a moment longer.

“Bring me that bag there,” he said eventually, gesturing with his chin towards the foot of the bed. D’Artagnan scrambled to get it, returning quickly and settling before Rochefort again. “Open it up, pass me what you find.”

So D’Artagnan did. 

He passed over a heavy iron rod, a coil of wire shaped like something he didn’t recognize, a small stoppered bottle with clear liquid within, clean scraps of cloth, and another bottle of the same tincture D’Artagnan had been given after his disobedience.

The items meant nothing to D’Artagnan. They would have, had he thought about it, but he’d passed them over automatically, mindless. There was no need to think about what Rochefort told him to do, only to do it. 

The herbs gave him pause, though. His eyes lingered on them when Rochefort set them on the table. When Rochefort’s gaze turned back to him, D’Artagnan managed a trembling question. 

“Have I been bad? I can do better!”

Rochefort studied him for a moment. “No,” he finally said, “this is a reward. Go bend over the bed for me, and be still.”

D’Artagnan relaxed. Rewards were good. He didn’t typically receive them, but he was sure it meant he would be touched and pet some more. He did as he was told, stretching his upper body across the sheets. 

There was only so much to do when he was face down and waiting, though. He could hear Rochefort moving things around, and his curiosity brought him back to the objects. 

Objects that he could now identify with startling clarity. 

Rochefort stoked the fire, D’Artagnan listened to the coals moving about, and pushed himself up on his elbows, suddenly tense. He cast a look over his shoulder and watched the man attach the coiled wire to the iron rod before setting it to the heart of the coals to heat.

No. 

This wasn’t a reward.

This was a punishment crueller than being thrown to the men and D’Artagnan had no idea what he’d done to deserve it. As soon as Rochefort stood from the fireplace, D’Artagnan was on his knees in front of him again, gripping his pants with white knuckles, eyes wide in panic.

“Please, please tell me what I did so I can make amends.”

Rochefort pulled his leg out of D’Artagnan’s grasp. He was more patient than he would normally be with the boy. His whimpering was understandable, though even now Rochefort would only be able to tolerate so much. 

“There are no amends. You’ve earned my favor. You’ve earned permanence.” He could see the flicker of desperate pleasure in the boy’s eyes, even now. An eager hunger for Rochefort to be pleased with him. 

D’Artagnan looked from Rochefort to the iron. His hands were shaking. “Please, I-“

“Go back to where you were told to be.”

D’Artagnan moved, his limbs unfolding automatically. He couldn’t be disobedient, not after he’d worked so hard. But when he got to the bed, he could not make himself bend over it, tears brimming in his eyes. 

“If I have to tie you down, boy, I’ll be displeased.”

“You can whip me,” D’Artagnan tried, hands pressed to the bed but not bending over it, not making himself vulnerable to the brand heating to red in the fireplace. “Make me bleed however you want, please, I’ll hold still, I’ll thank you -”

“Then hold still and thank me for this,” the count replied quietly. He considered the little thing before him, trembling and trying so, so hard not to disobey. He was lovely in tears. He was lovely bruised. He was lovely scared. And Rochefort would keep him that way for his own pleasure; if the boy cooperated enough to accept his with it that was up to him.

D’Artagnan sobbed and sat heavily on the bed, drawing his knees up to curl his arms around them, making himself as small as he could. The count hadn’t seen his pet respond so passionately in a long time, he’d dulled that fire of rebellion in him early and reaped the rewards for many months. But this would be part of that. He would hardly be one to step back on his own desires to appease a pet.

He stepped a little nearer, watched D’Artagnan shrink into himself before making himself unfurl to face him properly, and caught his hand in the boy’s hair.

“You are owned,” he reminded him, “and I will have it known. You will not deny me, pet, you know better than that.”

Tears seeped from bright blue eyes and D’Artagnan closed them, lips pressing together so tightly they paled. He didn’t answer, he didn’t nod or shake his head, he just trembled. Rochefort sighed deliberately through his nose and narrowed his eyes.

“Your chest or your thigh, pet, that’s the only choice I give you.”

Another choked sob broke free. They both sounded horrific, but one sounded… worse for the pain, but better for that small-but-growing neediness within him. The part that found peace on his knees with a mouth full of cock. 

D’Artagnan laid himself out on the bed, spreading his thighs open wide and throwing an arm over his face. He heard Rochefort slide the iron from the coals, heard his footsteps on the stone…

And then snapped his legs shut with a pathetic little hiccup. 

“Boy…” Rochefort was displeased. D’Artagnan felt twisted up inside. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “I’m sorry, please believe me, I’m trying! I just can’t, I just…” he was terrified. Scared out of his wits, beyond any fear he’d felt, except perhaps the first moment he’d been laid out on a table before the men, when Rochefort walked away from him. 

Peering under his arm, he saw Rochefort’s frustrated frown. He couldn’t fail him, he couldn’t stand it. 

“Tie me,” D’Artagnan begged, “I’ll take my punishment when we’re done. Please tie me down, tie me open, so I can be good for you. I want to be good for you.”

The count watched him a moment more, watched the way his body almost vibrated with panic, and moved to set the brand into the coals again. He said nothing when he returned, taking one of D’Artagnan’s feet to shackle to the bed, then the other, leaving him spread and prone as he once had been on his belly, now on his back.

He supposed he could allow such a demand, though he would not have at any other time, with any other thing. Permanence came with pain. And this was not the kind of pain he had slowly conditioned his pet to not only accept but enjoy, this was the kind of pain that burned through into memory and never left again.

He listened to the panicked sobs of the boy as he took up the iron again, turning it in his hand to set the brand in the direction he wanted it to face. It was his own; shaped as the ring on his finger, as the stamp he pressed to wax to seal his letters. Anyone who should see it, or anyone who Rochefort would have D’Artagnan present himself to, would know immediately who the boy belonged to.

He set the palm of his free hand flat against the inside of D’Artagnan’s leg and pinned it harder to the bed, angling the brand just above his skin, close enough that D’Artagnan could feel the heat.

“Stop,” he whimpered, but didn’t reach out, didn’t try to stop the man holding him down. “Stop, stop, please, stop, please,” a whimpered mantra, wet with tears and spit. Rochefort released a breath and pressed the brand down, the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair immediately filled the room, and D’Artagnan’s utterly anguished scream, he was certain, would be heard through the walls of the entire house.

“Master, no - _ PLEASE _ !”

Rochefort held the brand against him only as long as he needed to, mere seconds that lasted an eternity, an eternity of thick arousal. Then he tossed the iron to the floor. He could clean it later. 

D’Artagnan was still begging, even now that it was over, broken little sobs and pleas for ‘Master’s’ forgiveness. It was never a title Rochefort had forced upon him, though the role had been implied. This was something D’Artagnan had brought upon himself, something he’d held lurking under the surface. 

And now here he was, legs spread and tied, permanently marked as Rochefort’s property, submitting to him as much as was possible. Rochefort was painfully hard in his pants, but an infection would be regrettable. 

“Shh,” he whispered, brushing sweat-soaked curls away from D’Artagnan’s face, “hush now, pet. It’s over.”

“Master,” the boy whimpered. 

“That’s right,” Rochefort told him, planting a wet and hungry kiss just under the boy’s jaw, shifting to taste the swollen curve of his lips. “Such a good pet. Be good a little while longer. I’ll clean you up and have you, and tomorrow you’ll have a treat.”

None of his words seemed to reach D’Artagnan, who had stopped his pleading and was now staring glassily at him, whimpering in fear when Rochefort stood. 

“Hush, pet. It’s only a moment.”

D’Artagnan turned his face away, tears slipping from his eyes to soak into the pillow below, but he didn’t close them. He knew that when he was on his back he wasn’t allowed to close his eyes.

He felt sick. His entire leg felt like it was on fire, even though the brand itself wasn’t larger than a gold coin. He didn’t look down at it, he didn’t want to see. He wanted to imagine that it wasn’t there, that the pain was from something else, that this hadn’t happened.

But it had. It had, and he had let it. He had laid down and spread his legs, had asked - begged - to be bound down so he couldn’t escape. Everything in his power that D’Artagnan could have done to make this happen he had. He had no resisted, not once.

And then Master had kissed him…

When Rochefort returned, a cool cloth pressed to the brand to soak up the blood and fluids D’Artagnan’s body pushed out against infection, the boy sobbed, biting his lip, and clung to the sheets. He was cleaned and allowed himself to be moved as Rochefort bound the spot with a clean bandage, just tight enough to hold to D’Artagnan’s trembling thigh. Then he freed the boy and crawled atop, just holding himself where D’Artagnan could reach if he had the nerve to.

“What a beautiful obedient thing you are,” he sighed.

D’Artagnan shuddered. It felt good. It shouldn’t have, but it felt  _ so _ good. This was Rochefort. This was his Master, his entire world for months and months, and Master thought he was  _ beautiful _ . Beautiful and obedient and  _ good.  _

As the adrenaline wore off and the trembling shock set in, D’Artagnan’s mind felt cloudy. He felt like he’d been on his knees between Rochefort’s thighs for hours, instead of tied down and branded. 

He couldn’t close his eyes, but they were heavy lidded as he reached up to touch a fingertip to Rochefort’s cheekbone. Rochefort, full of a good mood D’Artagnan had never seen on him before, nipped playfully at it and drew a giggle from D’Artagnan that was very nearly drunk. 

“You won’t even make it to the end, will you, pet?”

“Hmm?”

“Never mind. Stay where I put you.”

He rolled D’Artagnan onto his stomach, hushing the warbling cry of pain. It would hurt the boy much less this way, and he’d be grateful come morning. 

Rochefort pressed more teasing bites against D’Artagnan’s skin, tracing the path of his spine, down the backs of his thighs. He rarely had to prepare the boy anymore, with how quickly he’d taken to enjoying his ‘practice’, so he simply set D’Artagnan’s knees wider on the bed and pushed in, a slow and delicious entry that drew a groan from them both. He was careful not to touch the bandages, not even the edges of them. While excruciating, the brand had  _ not _ been meant as a punishment, and he wouldn’t make it into one. Rochefort set a deliberate pace, deep and slow, working himself into his boy until the younger man keened softly, just the hint of those sweet noises he so often made.

“Just like that,” he praised him, tugging D’Artagnan’s earlobe until the boy squirmed against him, squeezing around his cock. He didn’t care of the boy didn’t get hard from this, he wouldn’t push him to. The fact that he had followed Rochefort’s commands, that he had spread himself open, even seeking help to  _ be good _ was remarkable. He’d expected that training a boy would be worth his time, he had never anticipated that D’Artagnan would be so receptive to it, and so beautiful in his obedience.

“My own pretty pet, claimed for the world to see,” he whispered, drawing a hand over D’Artagnan’s throat to lift his chin, fucking into him harder to push another whimper from him, another.

D’Artagnan took everything Rochefort gave him. His cock didn’t get hard, but when Rochefort reached for it it was damp, just from the pleasure of being fucked. Such a wonderful, slutty little thing, Rochefort wished he’d come for him years ago. 

His Master’s words sank in under his skin. Pretty, obedient little pet. He was a good boy. Master said so. And everything felt so hot, so full despite the pain. D’Artagnan clung to the pillows, rocking back as much as he could into the thrusts that shook his body. 

He wasn’t going to come, he didn’t know  _ how _ , not like this. But every thrust hit his sweet spot and forced another spark of pleasure and another wave of pain through his body, and on and on it went until his Master was shoving wet fingers into D’Artagnan’s mouth and coming with a gasp inside him. 

D’Artagnan let himself sink into the bedding, sucking mindlessly at the fingers in his mouth until they were taken from him. He felt so unbearably tired. 

“There’s a good pet.” Rochefort rolled onto his side, dripping with sweat. He ran a hand down D’Artagnan’s spine and over his ass, rubbing gently. D’Artagnan gave no response, his face smushed against the pillow and eyes half closed. Rochefort wished he could summon up the energy to fuck him again, and again, until he was leaving a trail everywhere he went. 

But there was always tomorrow, and the day after that. D’Artagnan would never leave. He couldn’t, not without being swiftly returned. Rochefort had him forever, beautiful and so well behaved. 

* * *

It took a month for the brand to properly heal. D’Artagnan had been tasked with keeping it well cleaned and properly bandaged as part of his daily routine, and he had done admirably.

He still met Rochefort at the door on his knees. 

He still serviced him as the man ate his dinner and read from his book. 

He obediently took his cock and moaned for it, begging for Master to fucking him  _ harder, please, more - _

He was persistently a good boy.

So when one evening Rochefort returned looking particularly pleased with himself, and met D’Artagnan’s usual greeting by bending at the waist to catch his chin and lift it, the boy eagerly stood and moved where he was led.

The count’s room had not changed at all since D’Artagnan had also taken up residence in it. There was still the bed, two chairs, the fireplace. Still the table filled with papers and quills. The bookcases, laden with tomes that D’Artagnan was encouraged to touch but rarely read. The side table with its ewer and bowl, the side room with its copper tub.

But two nights previous, a couple of attendants carried a hefty mirror into the room as well, setting it next to the fireplace to reflect the room back to itself. D’Artagnan ignored it mostly, he didn’t want to see himself in it, nor did he want to, and it hardly factored into his day.

Now, however, Rochefort set him to stand before it as he moved to drag his favourite chair up behind him. He sat, comfortable and amused, and watched D’Artagnan watch him through the reflection.

“Come here, pet.”

When D’Artagnan turned to face him, he was promptly gripped by the hips and turned back towards the mirror. Carefully, Rochefort undid the bandage around D’Artagnan’s thigh, revealing his brand, healed but still shiny and pink. 

D’Artagnan knew what it was, of course. He had seen Rochefort’s ring and his papers. It still made him flush red when he saw it. 

Carefully, D’Artagnan stepped back, until Rochefort was guiding his knees to bracket his own. He pulled his cock from his pants, stroking slowly. D’Artagnan’s mouth was watering. 

“Were you practicing today, pet?”

“Yes, Master.” Today and every day, waiting eagerly for the real thing. 

“Then you know what to do, don’t you?”

Still stretched from his private explorations, D’Artagnan let himself be guided backwards, sinking slowly onto Rochefort’s cock. The mirror was obscene, allowing D’Artagnan to see his body swallowing every last inch. 

When he had Rochefort deep in him, D’Artagnan moved to stand back up, but found himself caught and held still.

“Not yet,” he count murmured, moving instead to rest his chin against D’Artagnan’s shoulder as he slipped his hands down the boy’s thighs - careful with the brand - and grasped his knees. D’Artagnan blushed furiously as one knee, then the other, was moved to drape over the arms of the chair they shared, spreading him wide, showing everything to the unforgiving reflection.

“That’s better,” Rochefort told him, guiding D’Artagnan to lean back against him as one hand sought to tease around his nippled, the other toying with the skin just above where the brand sat, also sensitive, entirely ticklish. “Now I can see the faces you make when I fuck you, wanton little thing.”

D’Artagnan shivered but didn’t move to cover himself, he wouldn’t dare. He looked, instead, at how large Rochefort’s hands were against his own frail form. He’d never seen them from this angle before, just when he ducked his head, or when Rochefort wasn’t touching him. Here, he saw everything as though he were a bystander, and the thought alone filled his cock harder against his stomach.

Usually, Rochefort left D’Artagnan’s body to handle itself. Today, he cupped him in his broad hands, lifting his balls so D’Artagnan could see where they were joined. Rochefort rolled his hips once, a slow drag out and then in again, and then settled deep. The sight of it had D’Artagnan gasping, squirming for more. 

“Be still, pet. You’ll get what I give to you.”

D’Artagnan stilled with a whimper. Rochefort drew his nose up the side of D’Artagnan’s throat to tug at his earlobe with his teeth. 

“You like keeping me warm,” he whispered, “now I can touch you while you do it.”

And touch he did. His hands were everywhere, over D’Artagnan’s throat, tugging at his nipples in rhythmic pulls, sliding down to press his palm flat against D’Artagnan’s leaking cock. He didn’t cup him, merely rested his hand there and waited until D’Artagnan’s body jerked, needy for the stimulation. 

“Rut against my hand, pet. I want you to see what a pretty thing you are when you come, and then when you’re crying from a good fucking.”

“Y-yes, Master.”

D’Artagnan clung to the arms of the chair with sweaty palms, legs trembling with how wide they were spread, muscles aching from holding still for so long. He felt alive. He felt worthy, with how Rochefort touched him and handled him. For his own pleasure, to look at, to touch, to taste, but also enough for D’Artagnan to find genuine enjoyment in it.

It was more than he felt he deserved.

He rolled his hips into Rochefort’s hand, lip bitten hard between his teeth as his need immediately came to the surface again. With every motion, he felt how thick his master was within him, with every trembling push he leaked slick against Rochefort’s palm. He watched his own cheeks flood with heat, watched that blush slip down his throat and to his collarbones, warming them pink.

He looked at the brand, still angry-red and shiny, on the inside of his pale thigh and that was enough.

He tensed around Rochefort, arched back against him presenting his throat for his seeking teeth while still keeping his eyes on the mirror - he hadn’t been told to look away. He shuddered through his orgasm, lips parted on weak little moans of need, thighs working in minute motions to milk himself properly against the man who was granting him this gift - not only fucking him so well, as he did every night, but allowing D’Artagnan to see what he saw.

“Thank you,” he whimpered, biting his lip, toes curling in pleasure. “Thank you sir.”

“Good pet,” Rochefort told him, bringing his hand up for D’Artagnan to lick it clean, kissing against the boy’s sweaty throat, up behind his ear, to his jaw, as he did. “Now, up. Set your feet to the floor.”

D’Artagnan did, barely able to keep himself standing, hands back still, to balance himself against the arms of the chair. He moved as he was guided, to slip his legs back alongside Rochefort’s thighs so he was kneeling in the chair when he next sunk down on his cock - a much better position to move in.

“Please will you fuck me, Master?”

Rochefort nipped his shoulder with a grin. “You can do it yourself.”

D’Artagnan swallowed a whine and carefully began to rock his hips. It was never as good when he did it himself, never as rough or as fast as he liked it. Rochefort seemed to love it, though, and that was what mattered most to D’Artagnan. 

Rochefort sank so deeply into him, a constant rub against his swollen and sensitive insides. Each roll of D’Artagnan’s hips went straight to his cock, twitching against his thigh. It was far too much, and D’Artagnan loved it. It meant that this was solely about his Master, that he need not worry about anything but bringing Rochefort pleasure. 

Rochefort had him cup his own testicles and hold them out of the way, so they could both watch the hungry way D’Artagnan’s body devoured him. D’Artagnan was a sweaty mess, gasping and moaning as he rode Rochefort as well as he was able, throwing his whole body into the motion. 

“One day,” Rochefort said to him, “I’m going to help you with your practice. I’ll help you ride your stone toy until there’s not a single drop of fluid left in you.”

D’Artagnan gasped and clenched around him, shuddering with a painful arousal as he pushed himself faster and harder. 

“I’ll make you work yourself up,” he continued, a warm whisper in D’Artagnan’s ear, “over and over, until you’re begging me to stop. Because it hurts, because you’re so sensitive, aren’t you pet?”

“Yes, Master.”

“But you’ll do as I say, won’t you? You’ll touch, and make yourself come, again and again.”

D’Artagnan sobbed quietly, nodding his head when he couldn’t summon the breath to speak. Rochefort allowed it, the beautiful pain on his boy’s face spoke volumes. He kissed a sloppy line across D’Artagnan’s back and pressed to his other ear.

“And when I’m satisfied, when your little cock twitches but no longer weeps, then I’ll take the toy away, and turn you over and take my fill of you.”

D’Artagnan cried out this time, a sound of genuine distress if he wasn’t so truly hypnotized by the words, by seeing himself fucking so wantonly back against his master. If his cock wasn’t so hard in his hand, now, it ached. Rochefort clicked his tongue.

“Naughty thing, are you hard again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d better take care of that.”

D’Artagnan’s hand shifted immediately to properly wrap around himself. The grip was too dry, too much, but he rocked back against Rochefort with a needy cry, writhing between two sharp points of stimulation. He was learning what he could take, while alone in the room, how much he could make himself spill. Left to his own devices, arousal was a constant companion. 

D’Artagnan rode cock like he was born to do it, like he’d been trained years before Rochefort took him, a gift hewn straight from his fantasies. Rochefort kept a hand on his stomach, feeling the little gasps and hitched breaths as he pushed himself closer and closer to release. He shook when he came, an almost violent tremor, and then immediately shoved his own fingers in his mouth to clean them, without thought or pause. Rochefort had taught him to be hungry for it, to lap it up like ambrosia. He clenched around Rochefort like he was still coming, like even that action was part of the orgasm. Rochefort stifled a groan against his shoulder, gripping D’Artagnan’s slender hips in both hands and thrusting his own hips upwards.

With the exception of the brand, D’Artagnan no longer begged for anything to stop. He took what Rochefort gave him, even when it hurt. He sobbed sweet little noises, head thrown back against Rochefort’s shoulder as he was fucked. Even with his cock soft and bouncing between his thighs, he begged his Master for more, harder, please oh please oh god. Rochefort grabbed him by the throat and held him tight and still, fucking fiercly upwards as he came, spilling over to the sound of desperate, aching cries.

Slowly, Rochefort softened and slipped from him, and D’Artagnan’s pained whimpers drifted off into silence, the boy’s eyes glazed as he relaxed against Rochefort, as if this was the safest place he could be.

“Such a good little pet,” Rochefort praised, rubbing a finger over the scarring on his thigh. D’Artagnan hummed his pleasure and spread as wide as he could, always ready to present himself. 

For several moments, they stayed as they were, in the chair facing the enormous mirror, Rochefort allowing his eyes to devour the boy in his lap, D'Artagnan drifting in his pleasurable haze. When he was roused to eat his dinner, he went obediently; first to clean himself, then to take his meal on the floor, as always, watching Rochefort settle at the table for his own.

A good pet.

Something master was proud of brand as his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It won’t scrub away dry, pet,” Rochefort told him, “It needs polish. Picking at it like that will ruin the leather.”_
> 
> _D’Artagnan looked up at Rochefort, then back down at the boot. Then, to Rochefort’s surprise, he lowered his chest to the stone floor and began to mouth at the scuff._
> 
> A little boot worship, a little public sex, some humiliation and pets acting like pets.

The first time Rochefort took D’Artagnan from the room, the young man stuck so close to him they were walking as a three-legged thing. 

He’d been dressed in comfortable trousers that hung loose on his slim frame, boots, and a shirt with a frilled collar and sleeves. D’Artagnan tried not to fidget, but he hadn’t worn clothes in months, and the sensation was novel enough to require a lot of his concentration. He didn’t speak up, he didn’t get in the way, and he didn’t try to run.

Rochefort had weeks before stopped chaining the boy to the bed throughout the day, and had kept the door unlocked long before even that, and D’Artagnan still hadn’t fled. It was curious, perhaps the training had really taken as well as the count had hoped, or perhaps the boy had just accepted his fate, finally too exhausted to keep fighting for his long-ago abandoned pride.

The estate Rochefort owned was on the outskirts of the city, and fairly sizeable. It accommodated his soldiers, housed a stable, training yards for practice, a young vineyard and small farm that was run by peasants who paid their dues in produce and the occasional monetary deduction. While Rochefort was a soldier, answering to the cardinal and ready at a moment’s notice to go where he was sent, he was also highly placed in society. Once in a while, he entertained. Once in a while, he hosted important guests at his home.

The room D’Artagnan had been confined to was one of a dozen for sleeping alone. There were also drawing rooms and meeting rooms, the dining hall, a ballroom, a conservatory, library, and open atrium. The boy had assumed that Rochefort left the premises every time he left the bedroom, but in truth it was rare Rochefort left his home at all, unless called away; he just left the boy to his own devices while he took his time elsewhere.

Today: a tedious meeting with himself, several of his men, and the cardinal, to discuss matters of apparent import that Rochefort wasn’t particularly inclined to care for. Hence D’Artagnan. Perhaps as much for Rochefort’s own pleasure as for a chance to show his rumoured cruelty, he wanted the boy present for all to see.

He’d had a room prepared, wine poured. D’Artagnan whimpered at the sight of the men gathered round the table; he’d clearly not forgotten any faces, and he still wept in the night if Rochefort didn’t wake him. 

“Not today, pet,” Rochefort assured him, settling into his chair. D’Artagnan did not even attempt to find himself an empty seat. He dropped to his knees besides Rochefort’s boots without hesitation, without an order to send him there. He would not have been allowed a chair, regardless, but his swift, uncommanded obedience sent a ripple of shock around the table. None of the men had seen the boy since he was a wild thing.

The estate was too big for D’Artagnan, too many halls and doors, too many windows. He would never find his way through it all alone, and even now, he clung close to his Master, not daring to touch, but resting close enough that he could reach out a finger and touch leather boots, should he find the bravery. 

Even this room was too big, practically cavernous with it’s long meeting table, its big men with big hands that had hurt, that had  _ hurt _ -

D’Artagnan dropped his gaze to his knees, to his hands, the uncomfortable sleeves that scratched at him. He wished Master had brought him naked, instead. He didn’t like to be seen by anyone else, but it would have been so much better than the harsh feeling of cloth against his skin.

In their room at night, D’Artagnan was a still, quiet pet, but here, he fidgeted. He shifted in his uncomfortable clothes, tugged frustratedly at the frills that decorated him. Clothes were pointless. He was only going to get them dirty, to ruin things that Master had paid for, things that did not belong to D’Artagnan.

The count crossed one leg over the other, bringing a boot closer, and simultaneously blocking his eyeline across the table. Whether intentional or not, it helped settle D’Artagnan a little more.

He was not acknowledged at all, verbally. He could feel eyes on him and didn’t return the gazes. He could feel scrutiny, confusion, lust… the last made him shift minutely closer to the man at the head of the table. His hands dropped into his lap, seeking subtly for the brand beneath the fabric of his pants and pressing against it just enough to feel.

Master had said not today, and D’Artagnan would take him at his word.

He didn’t listen to the meeting around him, he examined the smallest of details in front of him instead. The table was immense, heavy, he could see scuffs against the legs of it from countless boots that had kicked them, weapons that had rested against them. He wondered what secrets it had overheard and what uprisings it had been privy to.

It was a strange thing to think, but D’Artagnan had long ago started to associate inanimate objects with their interactions to the environment around them; he had no one to talk to but Master, and even then they talked little, he usually listened. So he’d started narrating, instead, for the things he saw every day.

The floor was swept, but people had walked in grit from outside, small stones that would get underfoot, that would be swept up the next day to another part of the house, or back outside where someone else could carry them back in…

Rochefort’s boot had a scuff against it as well, where the attendant had not quite reached with his cloth and polish, and D’Artagnan found himself staring at it so intently his eyes stung from not blinking for so long. Then the count set both feet to the ground again and the spell was broken. D’Artagnan blinked and lifted his head just enough to orient himself again.

Sound flooded back in to his being, a little too loud, harsh against his ears. There wasn’t this much _ noise  _ in their room. It was quiet, peaceful. When D’Artagnan was alone, it was just the crackle of the fire and his own stories. When Master returned, he listened to the thick, deep tones of his voice.

This was harsh, clashing and clattering around in his skull. D’Artagnan wished his Master would cross his legs again, block out the room with his boot. D’Artagnan was still stuck on the leather, the scuff against it. There was no excuse for that. Master was important, he was in charge of the whole, huge, sprawling estate. The attendants could do better.  _ D’Artagnan _ could do better.

Shifting quietly on his knees, D’Artagnan sequestered himself under the table, bending low to inspect the scuff and rub at it with his thumb. 

Rochefort pushed away from the table to look when he felt the nudge against his foot. He hadn’t even noticed the boy move, too wrapped up in the argument he’d been having. He frowned, staring at D’Artagnan curiously as he picked at a scuff with his thumb nail. His pet liked to be useful.

“It won’t scrub away dry, pet,” Rochefort told him, “It needs polish. Picking at it like that will ruin the leather.”

D’Artagnan looked up at Rochefort, then back down at the boot. Then, to Rochefort’s surprise, he lowered his chest to the stone floor and began to mouth at the scuff.

He was about to say something, perhaps push the boy away, but his name drew his eyes up to the gathered men once more and he found himself distracted by another useless argument. He’d leave D’Artagnan for the moment, the worst the boy could do was get a bad taste in his mouth. If he did more, he’d be soundly punished.

D’Artagnan, for his part, continued to diligently lick at the mark, uncaring for who saw or who commented; he was under the table where his master could see and others could not, and as he had not made D’Artagnan return to his side, he remained where he was.

He tasted mud and sand, he tasted bootblack. The taste didn’t much matter, however, because his goal was to clean the scuff left behind by people who should have known better. Who should have done better. He pulled back to look, pleased when he saw part of it had been soaked away by his spit, and leaned in once more to keep working.

Above him, people argued. He could feel Rochefort’s tension through him like electricity and his entire body responded to it. He wanted to please his master, to ease him back to the lazy low warmth he surrounded himself in their room. To even the passionate lust he occasionally brought home and pushed into D’Artagnan.

But not this displeasure.

Not this offence.

Had he the means he would climb atop the table and strike down the man or men responsible, consequences be damned.

But, as it were, he remained on all fours, softly lapping at one mark, and then drawing his tongue in long deliberate licks from the toe of the boot to where it bent to accommodate the ankle.

The meeting was a lengthy one, but time had long since ceased meaning anything to D’Artagnan. He mouthed over one side of the boot, and then down the other. If he couldn’t rid his Master of his tension, then he would give him something to be pleased with.

D’Artagnan pulled back once he’d paid thorough attention to every inch of the boot. To his delight, Rochefort shifted, pulling one heel back and extending the other, offering another boot for D’Artagnan to clean. He hadn’t known his Master was paying any attention to him, and it flooded him with warmth. 

This boot did not have any scuffs to it, but D’Artagnan treated it as though it did, taking his time. The attendants would have to leave this to him in the future. 

It gave him the same hazy pleasure he got from warming Rochefort’s cock. D’Artagnan worshipped the second boot until Rochefort pulled it away from him, giving D’Artagnan’s curls an approving pat. D’Artagnan straightened up and hid a dreamy sigh in the side of Rochefort’s knee, earning a gentle hand in his hair. Rochefort pet him slowly, distractedly.

His tension was only growing, though. D’Artagnan couldn’t bear it. He’d spent months learning to please Master, and now he felt like a failure even though it was someone else disappointing the man. He turned his head, trailing kisses along Rochefort’s covered thighs, hoping to soothe or at least entertain. 

He knew the ebbs and flows of Rochefort's voice now, it lulled him as the count read to him in the evenings, it felt warm against his shoulders when his master purred his words of praise against his back as they fucked. His voice, now, was sharp and cruel; a voice that D'Artagnan hadn't heard directed at him in many months.

It still set him on edge.

Reminded him of his own failure, his own  _ lacking _ .

He nuzzled between Rochefort's legs and stayed there, still and obedient, until them man spread them to accommodate and allow. Only then did D'Artagnan work his pants open, only then did he sit closer more comfortably, and free his master's cock.

His lips were darkened by the bootblack, his tongue as well had a line running back just down it's center but he didn't care. He sucked from root to tip once, twice, before resting it flat and heavy against his tongue and sighing in contentment.

Here he could be useful. Here, he could help in his meagre and unimportant way.

The boy had become a sweet thing, so needy and dependent. If asked months ago, Rochefort would have been disgusted by the idea. Now it was arousing, intoxicating, to have such power over such a pretty thing. 

He’d been fidgety until he got his mouth on Rochefort’s boots, his cock. Now he settled, looking hopefully up at Rochefort through dark lashes. Rochefort tucked his curls behind his ears, freshly cut but still long enough to pull. The boy shuddered at the touch and closed his eyes, still and pliant. Rochefort knew whether he chose to hold him there or fuck him to choking, the boy would take both with pleasure. 

His Master’s tension eased. His voice softened, still firm, still commanding, but no longer losing his patience. 

_ I’m a good pet,  _ D’Artagnan thought happily to himself,  _ I’m good, and obedient, and I take care of my Master. No one else takes care of him like I do.  _

He didn't know how long he sat there.

He didn't care how long he sat there.

He vaguely heard the sounds of chairs moving and footfalls over the parquet floor. He connected only barely those sounds to the conclusion of the meeting.

It wasn't until Rochefort's hand landed in his hair again that D'Artagnan even looked up, hazy and almost half awake in his floating pleasure. He pulled off his master with a quiet sound of displeasure at having to move away but sat obediently before him regardless.

"Hello, pet." The count smiled. He had all sorts of smiles, D'Artagnan knew. Some were contented smiles, others false and cutting, others still cruel as a storm. This one was amused and warm and D'Artagnan near-beamed up at him.

"Master."

"Show me your tongue," Rochefort asked, and his smile spread even wider seeing the remnants of bootblack on it, just showing his teeth, and D'Artagnan shivered pleasantly. "Clever thing, have you cleaned my boots?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you done a thorough job, I wonder?"

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and he nodded solemnly. It took effort not to laugh at his seriousness. Rochefort had had his boy that morning on his back, had made him hold behind his knees and spread himself open as the count languidly fucked him, had drawl the most sweet mewls from him.

He hadn't told him to come.

He could see now, just how hard the boy still was, high cock tenting obscenely in his pants despite how loose the clothing was.

Rochefort slid his foot forward under the pretense of checking his boot, pressing firmly against the boy’s groin. D’Artagnan shuddered and held himself still, making no attempts to rut despite his obvious need. 

“Hmm. No scuffmarks. Do you think you’ve earned a treat?”

To his surprise, D’Artagnan shook his head wildly, curls bouncing. 

“No? Have you been naughty when I’m not looking?”

Another shake of the head, this one slightly more frantic. “Master tells me when I get treats,” the boy explained, as if it had been a trick question, “I don’t decide that.”

A hum, and Rochefort rested his cheek against folded fingers. There was a certain responsibility in caring for a boy he had deliberately made so dependent. He had wanted a slave, and before him sat one; eager and willing and obedient.

There was certainly pride in that, too, in having tamed such a wild thing to his hand.

For a moment the count wished they were not the last to remain in the room, but there would be plenty of other opportunities for public displays of D'Artagnan's obedience. For now, he was contented with having sat through the meeting without anyone throwing wine or the entire table at someone else. And he was pleased with his boy.

"Perhaps you could polish them for me," Rochefort said, pressing a little harder against D'Artagnan's cock before setting his foot flat to the floor. He gave no other instructions, and waited, watching the way D'Artagnan's mind worked to find a solution given his ample experience, now, with Rochefort's preferences for him.

Blue eyes met his much more frequently now, sought them out almost, for permission, for attention, just to be acknowledged. They looked, now, between the count's, and then the boy crawled nearer, straddling the offered boot.

He kept his hands on his own thighs, but when he caught himself against Rochefort's knee for balance the other didn't chasten him. He watched, instead, fascinated, as D'Artagnan squeezed his thighs around the boot and drew his body up and down over it.

A solution, and a reward.

"Very good, pet," Rochefort murmured, flexing his fingers against his face but not moving them. "I want them shining."

D’Artagnan’s face burned. He would obey his Master, of course, but he’d never quite gotten over the humiliation of being on display like this. Warming Rochefort’s cock had been different; Rochefort had seen it a thousand times already and no one else could see him under the table. 

Now, Rochefort was looking straight at him, still, patient. It made D’Artagnan ache, made him rut a little harder, fingers clenching in his lap. 

After a few minutes of this, after D’Artagnan began to pant and quiver, Rochefort pulled his foot away. D’Artagnan whined at the loss, for a moment thrusting into empty air. Rochefort watched him, until his breathing finally settled, and then slid the other foot forward. 

“They both need to be polished, pet, not just the one.”

D’Artagnan braced himself over the boot with a grateful moan. The restraint he’d shown at the beginning was gone. He fucked against Rochefort’s shoe in frantic desperation, eager to come before this too was taken away. 

“Come on, little slut. I have things to do.”

It was the name that did it, Rochefort saw. D’Artagnan jerked when he heard it, grinding down against his boot with a high, grateful whine. 

He was flushed, trembling, so lovely. A dark patch of wetness spread between his legs as Rochefort watched. When he pulled his boot back, D'Artagnan followed, crawling near enough to rest his cheek against his Master.

Rochefort spread his fingers in his curls and grasped them to tug, just once, before letting him go.

"Should I send you to your room, I wonder," he mused, considering the boy who watched him so closely. "Or have you join me on other mundane tasks I simply must attend, soiled as you are?"

D'Artagnan whimpered and bit his lip, nuzzling at the man's knee.

Everyone would see, as soon as D'Artagnan stood up. They would know he'd taken his pleasure, or it had been taken of him. They'd look and imagine and want. It would be so humiliating.

"I want to do what will please Master most," he said finally, looking up again.

"And if it will please me to bend you over this table and fill you up?"

D'Artagnan's lips parted, red and wet and quivering at the thought and it was answer enough. Rochefort tilted his head one way and another, groaning quietly when bones clicked and his tense muscles stretched.

"Stand up then, pet. Present yourself like the needy slut you are."

Rather than shuffling his pants down around his thighs, the boy took the opportunity to strip completely out of his new things, shoving them to the far side of the table. The only thing he kept were the soft woolen socks, a concession to the freezing stone floor. D’Artagnan was shivering by the time he bent himself over the table, but he made no move towards the pile of cloth. 

“Did you miss showing off?” Rochefort asked him, rubbing his cock against the boy’s twitching hole. Rochefort had brought no oil, but after the long morning fuck, the boy opened easily for him, with only the smallest whimpers of discomfort. 

The boy was still damp with Rochefort’s seed, but Rochefort still found himself slicking his own fingers and smearing the excess over his cock. More for his own comfort than D’Artagnan’s, of course. 

D’Artagnan clenched around him eagerly, as though he hadn’t just come, as though he wasn’t letting oversensitive whines slip from his swollen lips. Rochefort rocked into him nice and slow, taking his time enjoying the boy. There was much still to do, and Rochefort was more than happy to put it off as long as he could. 

“Eager slut,” he whispered, mouth pressed against D’Artagnan’s nape, “never satisfied unless you’re naked and stuffed full of cock.”

D'Artagnan's fingers dug into the table and he keened softly, cheeks on fire and lips split into a smile. He hated to think of himself that way, so he didn't. He thought of himself as whatever Master wanted at any given time. Whether he be a slut, or a good boy, or a soft pet, or a little brat in need of discipline.

He was whatever his Master needed him to be.

He arched his back, pressing his forehead to the table as Rochefort rewarded the adjustment with a deliberate shove against his prostate. D'Artagnan pushed up on his toes and gasped when it felt even better the second time.

He was aware that he was entirely bare, spread over a table that had been used for wine and maps and discussions, a table that sometimes probably had food served upon it.

Now he was there, spread wide and thoroughly enjoyed. D'Artagnan shivered in bliss.

"Count Rochefort?"

D'Artagnan stilled and pressed a hand to his mouth as though that was the worst he had to hide, now that someone had come in. His hand was gently but deliberately removed and folded up against the base of his spine.

"What?" Rochefort didn't stop his motions, gave no indication that the interruption had disturbed him at all. He sounded put-upon and bored.

"Sir, I -"

"Come around and face me when you have something to say."

D’Artagnan caught his plea behind his teeth and swallowed it back. He didn’t tell Master no, especially when they’d had such a good day. 

His other hand was caught and joined with the first, thin wrists held effortlessly in just one of Rochefort’s. Normally, restraint went straight to his cock, made him squirm and moan “like a wanton whore,” Master said. 

Today, he whimpered and tucked his red face against the table. He heard footsteps, and then Rochefort twisted fingers into his hair and hauled him up, arching his back. It changed the angle, letting Rochefort grind lazy, deep thrusts against his prostate, and D’Artagnan found himself letting out a loud, needy moan as he locked eyes with the soldier who’d come in. 

This man had taken D’Artagnan before, and it was clear he wanted to again. He gaped at D’Artagnan, the way he squirmed restlessly on his toes, thoroughly trapped and loving it so much that he nearly forgot his humiliation. Nearly. It was not enough to drain the bright color from his face. 

“You, you’re wanted in the kitchens, Sir,” the soldier stammered, “they wanted to go over plans for the feast.”

A feast. There was a holiday in winter, D’Artagnan had forgotten. Master thrust harder into him and D’Artagnan forgot it again. 

"Tell them to wait," Rochefort replied, voice only a little strained from what they were doing. "I'm in the middle of a pressing matter." He considered the soldier as the man remained standing, eyes wide and lust evident as he stared at the boy Rochefort was so thoroughly enjoying.

"Or stay and gawk, by all means," the count told him, catching the soldier off guard and sending him fidgeting and floundering for how to leave the room. He did, eventually, D'Artagnan only knew because when he moaned again, a desperate and loud sound, Rochefort ducked his head to kiss his curls before letting them go.

"See how tempting you are?" Rochefort murmured. "So obedient and pretty, now. Do you remember him? The last time he saw you so, you were a feral little beast."

A very deliberate and deep fucking followed the words, the count's breath coming in heavy pants over D'Artagnan's sweaty skin. He took it, everything, and gave his voice, and arched his back and squirmed for more.

"You are sin incarnate, my pet," Rochefort praised him, pushing in deep and groaning as he filled D'Artagnan for the second time that day, pulling out to watch how he immediately dripped from his gaped hole. "I think I'll have you come to the kitchens with me."

A sharp spank that left the imprint of Rochefort's hand on D'Artagnan's ass felt like the highest praise, and D'Artagnan wriggled against the table, thanking his master before reaching for his clothes.

"Come summer," Rochefort added, "I'll have you follow me bare."

And the promise of summer, still two seasons away, made D'Artagnan preen in pleasure. He slipped his shirt over his head first and reached with a pleasing bend to gather his pants after, allowing for the tease of his wet thighs to peek out from beneath the hem of his shirt for his Master to see.

When the count left the room, perfectly put together once more, D'Artagnan followed at his heels, relishing the slip of seed against his legs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The razor unfolded in his hand, sharp and shining in the scant moonlight that filtered through the window. D’Artagnan returned to the bed, standing at the foot of it, watching Rochefort’s chest rise and fall in sleep. _
> 
> _It would be simple. First him, then D’Artagnan himself. Quick, lethal, deep enough that nothing would save either of them. A moment of pain, an eternity of nothing at all, after._
> 
> Murder murder murder...

D’Artagnan was having a good day. 

All days were good, typically, but today had started out wonderfully. He’d been fucked to orgasm while still under the blankets, cocooned with Master in heat and intimacy. Master had him on his back, sucking and biting bruises into his throat. Later, D’Artagnan had fucked himself with his stone toy, alternating between hard presses to the bruises and light caresses over his brand. 

Without the chain, he now waited for his Master right in front of the door, ready to be of use in any way Master wanted, although he almost always wanted him to eat dinner first. 

Master, however, seemed  _ not _ to have had a good day. He was a storm cloud when he entered the room, ignoring D’Artagnan entirely. His ire tainted the safety of their room, flooded it black and cold despite the fire. 

D’Artagnan made his way tentatively to the chair his Master sat in. He stayed on all fours; sometimes it pleased Master to see him crawl. 

Rochefort looked down at the pathetic creature on the floor and grimaced. He was not in the mood to coddle or indulge D’Artagnan today. Taking D’Artagnan’s plate, he set it to the floor and shoved it away with his foot, knocking scraps of vegetables to the floor. 

“Go eat, boy.”

D'Artagnan blinked but obeyed, despite the painful lump in his throat from the lingering threat in Rochefort's tone. It never occurred to D'Artagnan that the man's anger was based on other experiences, on other people's stupidity and mistakes. For the boy, there  _ were  _ no other experiences or people. This room, their room, was his entire life.

His master was his entire world.

But Rochefort would not be placated by quiet obedience today. His impatience was brutal, his temper explosive, and while months before he would have thought nothing of flaying the boy with a whip to sate his own displeasure, that no longer felt like something that would satisfy him.

And that made him all the angrier.

He didn't want a needy thing. He didn't need one. Part of him wanted to toss the boy to the snow and forget about him but that  _ too _ struck a nerve he didn't have to spare.

He watched the boy eat, grunted when he thanked him, and found himself tensing as soon as D'Artagnan crawled closer to sit by his feet.

"Leave me be, pet."

D'Artagnan didn't move. He didn't say anything, he just stayed where he was.

"I told you to go away," the count rephrased, eyes hard when he looked upon the thing kneeling so obediently. Any other day he would be contented to use him, to work his anger out on the boy's eager mouth or ass. But not today.  _ Not today _ .

He sat forward and struck him, a slap so harsh it turned his head and the boy whimpered. Rochefort had had no need to keep him in line with pain anymore and the boy was unused to it. But even then he didn't move. Even then he was  _ obedient. _

But he wasn't obeying what the count was saying, he wasn't going away, he was trying, in his stupid earnest way to make it better. And it was insufferable.

So when Rochefort stood, gripping the boy's curls and bodily dragging him to the door, the boy didn't fight him. He struggled and wriggled but he didn't lash out. Rochefort yanked open the door and threw D'Artagnan out so roughly his back struck the bannister that ran opposite the bedroom and rattled it.

"Get out of my  _ sight _ I said," Rochefort hissed, and slammed shut the door.

D’Artagnan’s back would bruise, over old scars from whippings. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care, could not even  _ breathe _ . 

There was so much  _ space _ around him. Too much. If he looked to his left, he could see through the bannister to the floor below. It made him dizzy. 

He’d been out here before, but never without Rochefort. D’Artagnan scrambled to his feet and tugged at the door. 

It had been locked. 

D’Artagnan stared at the door, uncomprehending. He gave it another jerk, as if that would somehow open it. 

“Go  _ home _ , D’Artagnan,” came his Master’s voice. 

It took him a long, lingering moment to realize Rochefort was speaking to  _ him _ .  _ He _ was D’Artagnan. 

Pet was good. Boy was bad. He didn’t know what D’Artagnan was. He didn’t understand the command. He tugged at the door again, panic beginning to bubble thick and cold in his stomach. 

The door wouldn’t give. He tried knocking, gently at first, then harder, then with all his might with both hands, hammering until he ached, until Rochefort’s voice broke the frantic beat with a rough loud tone.

“Get away from the door!”

“Master, please!”

“ _ What did I say?” _

“What did I do?” D’Artagnan’s voice was thin, trembling, entirely not his own. He hadn’t been this panicked in months, he couldn’t remember the last time. Even the brand was a different kind of fear, a building of anticipation, a promise of something after that would ease the pain. “Please tell me what I did so I can fix it, please!”

“Any mark on that door, boy, a single scratch, you will pay for tenfold with your hide.”

D’Artagnan immediately beat against it once more, uncaring for how many times his fists fell, uncaring when his nails scraped against the wood. He would take any beating, he would take  _ anything _ as long as Master touched him again. He didn’t realize he was crying out until his voice echoed in the hall.

It felt like an eternity until the lock clicked and the door opened and D’Artagnan fell immediately into his master, clinging to him desperately, pressing himself closer than he ever dared before. He didn’t care when he was cursed and called all manner of things. He didn’t care when he was yanked back by his hair and slapped, again and again and again until he tasted blood. He didn’t care, because Master was touching him.

“Stupid, useless, good for nothing boy, I will  _ make _ you leave.”

“Only if you kill me,” D’Artagnan whined, “only if I’m dead, only then.”

“I might, filthy thing,” Rochefort hissed, dragging him into the room again and shoving him down against the wall by the window. “I’ll beat you to death. Flay the skin from your bones.”

“Alright,” D’Artagnan sobbed. “Just don’t send me away!”

A boot caught him in the side, knocking the wind out of him and sending him toppling to his side. 

“Disobedient little  _ bitch _ . I should auction you off to the highest bidder.”

D’Artagnan choked on his own breath. He forced himself to his hands and knees, back to Rochefort. “Please, Master, I want to be good for you. Please beat me.”

He heard a frustrated growl, and Rochefort’s boot knocked him over once more. This time, D’Artagnan stayed, since this was clearly how Rochefort wanted him. 

Stomping feet around the room, and then the door opened and slammed shut. Rochefort had left. 

D’Artagnan stayed where he was put, crying quietly. There were two bruises blossoming on either side of his ribs, proof that he was bad, that he was a horrible, useless  _ bitch.  _

It took hours for Rochefort to return. After the first hour passed, D’Artagnan fetched the strap, waiting on his knees by the door, shaking with cold as his knees and calves began to ache, and then went numb. He waited, half asleep on his knees, until footsteps echoed down the hall and the door swung open. 

His Master was back. He was not alone. He had a tiny, giggling boy hanging off his arm. D’Artagnan’s age, blonde and delicately pretty. D’Artagnan felt nauseous. 

He watched as Rochefort kissed over the young thing’s cheek, sucked his earlobe, whispered something into his ear that made the boy squirm and laugh more. All the while, Rochefort looked at D’Artagnan, eyes narrowed in a kind of cruel pleasure that he hadn’t seen since the first few weeks as his prisoner.

This would be his punishment.

A punishment that hurt more than anything else ever had.

A punishment that he didn’t even understand how he had deserved, or why.

“Get into bed for me, sweetling,” Rochefort told the boy and yanked him back when he moved to obey to kiss him full on the mouth. In a way he had never kissed D’Artagnan. In a way D’Artagnan ached to be kissed by him. This time when he let him go, the boy went with a bit of a stumble. Drunk, or very close to it, if D’Artagnan had to guess.

He kept his eyes on his master, flinched only when Rochefort took the strap and tossed it aside, gripping D’Artagnan’s hair instead.

“And you,” he hissed. “You will watch.”

The sound D’Artagnan made was animal, wounded. Rochefort stepped towards the bed, dragging D’Artagnan along with little care for how he scrambled to keep up. 

The pretty thing Rochefort had brought home stared at D’Artagnan with open curiosity. D’Artagnan was dragged onto the bed, forced into a kneeling position at the foot. 

“Stay where you’re put,” Rochefort growled at him, “be  _ obedient _ .”

And D’Artagnan stayed. 

He stayed as Rochefort crawled over the pretty, giggling boy. As he kissed sweetly down his chest to put his mouth on the boy’s cock, to suck him the way D’Artagnan usually did for Rochefort. It felt wrong to see Rochefort like that, bringing pleasure to someone who didn’t even know enough to know that Rochefort’s pleasure came first. 

D’Artagnan was still as Rochefort opened up the stupid boy with gentle fingers and oil, so much oil that the boy was dripping with it. As Rochefort whispered sweet things D’Artagnan had never heard him say before, and the boy, the stupid boy, laughed like he deserved them when he hadn’t even  _ done  _ anything yet, when he didn’t even spread his legs properly until Rochefort settled between them. Even then, D’Artagnan could go wider. 

He watched as Rochefort didn’t fuck him, but rocked into him, held him gently, stroked his hair like the boy was the most precious thing on earth and D’Artagnan wanted to be sick.

And then Rochefort looked at him. Met his eyes over the trembling curls that were so much like D’Artagnan’s only golden where his were dark. He looked at him and made sure D’Artagnan knew that this was not for him. This was not what pets got, especially not disobedient, filthy, awful ones. D’Artagnan only knew he was crying when something skimmed down his cheek and immediately cooled a trail from his eyes to the corner of his mouth. 

He didn’t make a sound. He sat where he was put. He was obedient.

Rochefort used his hand to bring the boy over first, kissing under his chin as he shuddered in pleasure and clung to Rochefort with his unworthy hands. He kept up the gentle pace, the whispers, the kisses, the adoration until he himself finished, buried deep in the boy who squirmed and mumbled in discomfort.

Then he pushed up and away, sitting back for a moment and watching D’Artagnan trembling and crying at the foot of the bed.

“On the floor,” he told him, “like the dog you are.”

D’Artagnan swallowed thickly and sought blind behind him with his feet to obey. He flinched when a heavy blanket was tossed to him not a moment later, the implication clear.

You don’t belong in the bed anymore.

D’Artagnan curled up in the blanket. Thick enough to trap his body heat inside, but not so much that he wasn’t well aware of the hard stone beneath him. He had not been granted a pillow. 

It was late now, closer to morning than to bedtime. D’Artagnan lay awake, thinking. Crying. And then not crying, and then… angry. 

It had been so long since he’d been angry, he almost didn’t recognize the feeling. But in the bed, curled up against D’Artagnan’s Master, was a boy who had not earned the pleasure. Who had never worked like D’Artagnan had, who touched Rochefort with greedy, ungrateful hands, and in the morning he would no doubt touch him again. In the morning he would be kissed and touched and told sweet things, he would get the only things D’Artagnan still wished for in this new life. Things that he’d dreamed about with his head pillowed on Rochefort’s chest. 

D’Artagnan didn’t sleep. He filled himself with anger, with disgust. Rochefort had brought home a whore who didn’t even know how to be good, didn’t know the things Rochefort liked, had  _ complained _ when Rochefort fucked him past his completion. And Rochefort had  _ allowed it.  _ Had rewarded him, even. 

He rose from his blanket. He went over to where Rochefort kept the razor he used on D’Artagnan’s patchy peach fuzz, sharpened on the very strap he beat D’Artagnan with for disobedience. But not tonight. 

The razor unfolded in his hand, sharp and shining in the scant moonlight that filtered through the window. D’Artagnan returned to the bed, standing at the foot of it, watching Rochefort’s chest rise and fall in sleep. 

It would be simple. First him, then D’Artagnan himself. Quick, lethal, deep enough that nothing would save either of them. A moment of pain, an eternity of nothing at all, after.

The blonde boy at Rochefort’s side made a fussy sound and turned over, tugging some of the blankets off the count, who didn’t even shift he was so deeply asleep. D’Artagnan watched him wriggle about before kicking off the blankets and trying to find the floor with uncoordinated bare feet.

D’Artagnan sank to his knees again as the other stood, a hand pressing to his temple as he made another sound of displeasure and stumbled over to where the chamber pot was to relieve himself. D’Artagnan watched, eyes narrowed at the slender body swaying half-drunk before him. Unworthy, undeserving, unnecessary… he waited for the boy to finish, waited for him to stretch his arms above his head with an obscenely pleased sound.

It took him two steps to get to the young man, a hand over his mouth as his other drew the blade across his throat, deep enough for the head to fall back against D’Artagnan’s shoulder. The blood was too hot, it felt unreal and thick, and the smell made D’Artagnan’s eyes water. He’d never seen so much at once before.

Soon, the boy was too heavy, too cumbersome to hold up, so D’Artagnan let him fall to the ground, catching just a limp arm by the wrist. He drew a hand over his face and shook his head before making his way to the door, dragging the still-warm corpse behind him.

He’d get rid of him, clean up the mess he’d made, and in the morning take whatever his master wanted to give him.

D’Artagnan ended up depositing the body over by the banister. It was his second time out in this hallway today, and he was gripped with terror, frightened that the door would lock behind him, for good this time.

Gripped by fear and devastation, D’Artagnan could barely think. It seemed perfectly reasonable, in that moment, to leave the body in the hallway. The hallway was not the room, and the entire world was the room, and so the hallway was as good as a burial, as far as D’Artagnan’s exhausted mind was concerned. He returned to the room, locking the door behind him with a sense of relief, and turned right into Rochefort’s chest.

Rochefort stared down at the boy, blood dripping down his bare chest. The boy stared up at him, and then calmly handed Rochefort his own straight razor, also bloodied. 

“What have you done, pet?” Rochefort asked quietly.

“He didn’t know how to be good for you.”

Rochefort let his eyes travel over the boy before him. He was covered in gore, blood slicking down his skinny body, setting his ribs into stark relief. He could see D’Artagnan’s pulse twitch in his belly, blood reflecting the moonlight where it touched him.

He looked filthy.

He looked ravishing.

He’d just killed someone Rochefort had taken to his bed. He hadn’t killed  _ Rochefort _ , when he could have. When Rochefort would have done had he been in D’Artagnan’s place, and yet…

He stepped nearer, bracketing D’Artagnan against the door. The boy looked up at him, first through his fringe, then directly, tilting his chin up, baring his throat for the razor Rochefort still held. Fearless. Lovely.

Always so lovely.

The count couldn’t even remember why he had been so angry at him earlier. He couldn’t remember if it had had anything to do with the young man at all, or if he had just been the target of his ire when there was no one else to take the brunt of it.

He slapped his hand against the door near D’Artagnan’s head, the boy barely blinked, just watching him with earnest, beautiful eyes filled with such obsessive adoration that it burned through him. He let the razor drop to the ground with a clatter and grabbed D’Artagnan by his cheek, tugging him close enough that when their lips met, a brutal and harsh thing, D’Artagnan was caught between the door and Rochefort’s chest with nowhere else to go.

His Master kissed him, kissed him hot and wet, licked blood from D’Artagnan’s lips. He pinned him in place, their bare bodies aligned. It was like a dream, like the fantasies D’Artagnan pleasured himself to alone in their bed. D’Artagnan couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. His head was spinning. His legs dropped out from under him.

Rochefort just barely caught the boy, sweeping him off his feet when he failed to get them back under him. They were both dripping now, but the mess could wait. Rochefort laid D’Artagnan out in the bed, right where he’d laid the other boy, a boy whose name Rochefort had long forgotten. 

D’Artagnan looked up at him, looking hazy and disbelieving. His hands grasped at the blankets beneath him, smearing stains across wool fabric. Rochefort laughed at the wonder on his face.

“You cut a man from ear to ear, and yet you fall to pieces from a kiss?”

“You’ve never kissed me before,” D’Artagnan said, his voice an awe-filled whisper, “Not my lips.”

Rochefort had, of course, but it was no surprise to him that D’Artagnan had forgotten the aftermath of his branding. He bent now to spread the boy’s thighs and kiss the mark,  _ his _ mark on this beautiful, deadly creature. Vicious without care or fear, and entirely bent to Rochefort’s whims. “Would you like me to kiss you again, pet?”

“ _ Please _ ,” D’Artagnan breathed.

So he did. And this time D’Artagnan was ready for it, drew enough breath to keep himself from fainting, tentatively reached out to touch against the rough stubble, the soft beard of his Master as the other worked D’Artagnan’s mouth open with his own in brutal, claiming need.

Rochefort laughed against him, that purring and warm thing D’Artagnan thought of so frequently with his hands between his legs in bed, or with his knees spread wide and his face buried in the pillow that smelled of his master most as he stretched himself open for him. He laughed and nipped at D’Artagnan’s lower lip before catching a hand in his hair and pushing his tongue into the boy’s warm, willing mouth.

D’Artagnan was ecstatic. His entire body vibrated with need, every nerve sensitive to his master’s proximity, to his master’s need hard between his legs as he kissed D’Artagnan and rutted down against him, and his boy obediently spread his legs to welcome him closer.

He touched, but not as harshly as Rochefort handled him. He drew a hand through Master’s hair, through the strands that weren’t long enough to be caught in the velvet tie that kept the rest back, up over his strong shoulders, down his spine, feeling him shift with predatory strength to allow it.

D’Artagnan could die right then and there and be contented.

“Possessive thing,” Rochefort teased. “Marking your territory in blood, messy boy, what am I to do with him now?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, eyes hooded, lips kissed red. He didn’t care, as long as they never saw him again, as long as no one else slept in Master’s bed but him. He spread his legs wider, drew up his knees, and reached to tug Rochefort against him once more, rolling his hips up to meet the count’s with unashamed, unrestrained need.

“Can’t let you out of my sight,” Rochefort murmured against his jaw, reaching for the oil, “Who knows what sort of trouble you’ll get into? No, you’ll stay right here, in my room. In my  _ bed _ .”

“Yes,” D’Artagnan babbled, tears gathering in his eyes again, “Yes, Master, please. Please keep me.”

“Where else would you go, pretty thing?” Rochefort lined himself up, too impatient to wait. D’Artagnan moaned as he was filled, wrapping his legs around Rochefort’s hips, arching up against him in blatant eagerness. 

Nowhere. There was nowhere else for D’Artagnan to go, no one else he would want to belong to. Rochefort rocked into him, so slow, so sweet. He pressed kisses along D’Artagnan’s jaw, against his lips. He fucked him the way he’d fucked the boy, so careful, touching so much that D’Artagnan felt drunk on it.

“You’ll warm my bed for the rest of your life, pet,” Rochefort said, delighted when D’Artagnan cried out and rolled his hips up to meet Rochefort’s thrusts, “You’ll die in this room, decades from now, having spent your whole life as my obedient little slut.”

“Yes, yes,” D’Artagnan’s body tightened around him, his arms reaching up to brace against the headboard. He came untouched, cock pulsing over and over again, a mess against his stomach, a pulse around Rochefort that seemed unending, rolling into another peak every time he thought the boy done.

He ducked his head to draw the flat of his tongue through the blood on D’Artagnan’s chest and the boy sobbed, opening his mouth obediently when the taste was fed to him. He still hadn’t quite understood what he’d done. He still didn’t quite understand what was happening. That his master was kissing him, holding him, making love to him instead of fucking him into the sheets to sate his lust.

Maybe he was dreaming? Maybe he had died?

He tensed his muscles and bit his lip, pressing his heels to Rochefort’s hips to encourage him to go faster, deeper into him, to take D’Artagnan how he wanted, to thoroughly enjoy him, because he could.

“I want to be nowhere else,” he admitted, whimpering as Rochefort tormented his prostate with quick shallow thrusts that brought goosebumps up on D’Artagnan’s skin and arched his back in the most beautiful way. “Yours, just yours, forever, for everything, please -”

“Mine,” Rochefort growled, “My toy, my sweet boy. My good. Obedient.  _ Pet _ .” Rochefort fucked in deep, arms on either side of D’Artagnan’s head, noses touching as he came, rocking his hips and thoroughly filling his pet while D’Artagnan moaned and squirmed like the world’s best little whore. 

Rochefort cleaned them both. He was not fast enough to catch D’Artagnan before he swallowed down his own release, but he still ran a warm cloth carefully over the boy’s stomach, up over his chest. The sheets would need to be changed, the old ones discarded, but when he stood to summon his attendants, D’Artagnan reached for him. 

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, a hot bath, perhaps even for both of them, washing the blood from their hair and skin. A little bit of spoiling would hardly ruin the boy in a single night. Rochefort crawled back into bed with him, pulling D’Artagnan to lay over his chest as he always did, Rochefort’s hand in his hair, equal parts petting and pinning. D’Artagnan seemed blissful, and lost in it. He had the same joy on his face that he wore when Rochefort let him crawl between his legs and suck for hours, a pure, peaceful ecstasy. Beautiful, odd little thing. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That last fantasy had become a favourite; because it was exactly that: a fantasy. Master would never give such things to his pet, and certainly not in public but… D'Artagnan liked to imagine. The thought alone was enough to twitch his exhausted cock against his belly._
> 
> Our little pet gets addicted to masturbation... inevitable really considering how bored he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...not only bored but ridiculously mentally abused... believe us, we got into the headspace so far that we found a lot of upcoming chapters "fluffy" when they are absolutely not so... we don't blame you if you have too XD

D’Artagnan was becoming addicted to his ‘practice’. 

It had just been a fun hobby at first, something to keep him occupied. Now, though, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off himself. 

He sprawled out on his stomach on their bed, two fingers deep in his own body and squirming. The stone toy wasn’t as big as Master, but it was smooth and heavy and would feel  _ so good _ inside of him. 

He liked to imagine it was his Master touching him, whispering filthy things as he fucked D’Artagnan open. He was so much better at it than D’Artagnan was at imagining it, but he let himself get lost in memory. 

Master, deep inside him, D’Artagnan tied down to the table in the meeting hall. Master had never done it, but he’d threatened it before, and as the toy slid into himself D’Artagnan imagined he could feel eyes on him, his Master showing off how proud he was. 

He fucked himself slow, his reflection in his mind's eye moaning and squirming in his restraints as Master pressed a hand to the small of his back and held him still. D'Artagnan bit down on the sheets, but in his imagination his voice rang out loud and needy with every thrust. He imagined how he'd arch his back, how he'd take everything Master gave him and thank him for it, dripping with his seed when Master was done.

When he came, it was weakly, body already exhausted after hours and hours of play. D'Artagnan trembled and wondered if he could nap and practice some more before Master returned or if he hadn't the time. The need still ached in him, wouldn't be satisfied by anything but Master himself, though D'Artagnan would obsessively try anyway.

For the moment, he pushed up onto his knees and cleaned up the mess he'd made, sitting back on his heels after absently sucking a fingertip clean as he stared into space.

He wanted nothing more than to follow Master about and be of use to him. To have Master set his feet to his back, or use D'Artagnan's mouth, or simply rest a hand in his curls and fiddle with them during a particularly dull meeting. Nothing on earth brought him greater pleasure. As he sprawled in bed, limbs akimbo and lazy with release, D'Artagnan tried to imagine what else he could do to ease Master's day.

Perhaps Master would have him touch himself, as he sometimes did in the evenings so he could watch, but instead of just Master it would be an entire hall of envoys, high born guests at dinner, watching D'Artagnan spread his legs wide and moan like a whore as he stroked his cock for them.

Or maybe it would be at a dinner, and Master would bend D'Artagnan over the dishes at the table and devour him instead, forcing D'Artagnan to meet the eyes of all the other guests as his Master teased and tormented him, warning him not to come and whipping him hard with his belt when D'Artagnan inevitably disobeyed…

That last fantasy had become a favourite; because it was exactly that: a fantasy. Master would never give such things to his pet, and certainly not in public but… D'Artagnan liked to imagine. The thought alone was enough to twitch his exhausted cock against his belly.

Just one more. One more, to the imagined heat of Master’s mouth. 

In the next fantasy, it was soft. Easy. 

_ Open up for me, sweetling. _

And D’Artagnan’s body would open wide, let Master slip inside him, fingers and tongue and cock, stretching him open wide. He was so much  _ bigger _ than D’Artagnan, everywhere, blanketing him, hands over D’Artagnan’s ribs, over and down his sides. D’Artagnan wrapped a hand around his own little cock, sobbing helplessly at his desperate need. 

It hurt this time, too soon, too sensitive, each slow stroke of his hand making him squirm. But that was  _ better _ because it was how Master would do it, use him up until he was weak and spasming. 

D’Artagnan managed another two orgasms, the second dry and weak,  _ and  _ his nap before he had to be on his knees at the door. He was blissful when he greeted his Master, already dazed and drifting before he even got Master’s cock filling up his mouth. 

He was still wet and open when Master took him to bed, on his stomach tonight, ass propped up for Master to slide right into, and it  _ hurt _ so good, built a fire in his belly, but his treacherous cock managed only weak twitches against the bedding. 

Rochefort chuckled warmly against his shoulder, chiding his boy on being  _ all used up _ by the time Master got to him. D’Artagnan had squirmed happily and told him he was sorry, said he’d been thinking about Master all day and couldn’t help himself. That seemed to satisfy the man enough to not push in more than just teasing, and D’Artagnan fell asleep happily curled up at Master’s side.

He slept like the dead. Dreamless and dark sleep that he woke from refreshed and eager.

Master had him on his back this time, making D’Artagnan spread his arms wide and hold the sheets as he fucked into him and tormented his nipples with his mouth. The boy was a squirming mess, voice breaking from his throat in bright sparks of delight.

He held on. He didn’t let go to touch Master. He came so hard between them it slicked their bellies and Master lay against him after for longer than usual, lamenting how he couldn’t stay with his boy in bed all day.

Then he left, and D’Artagnan - lips still tingling with the salt of his release - reached for his toy.

Rochefort loved that his boy was insatiable. He loved knowing that D’Artagnan thought of him all day long and couldn’t help but touch. He loved that he’d thoroughly trained his pet to be aroused so easily, half hard through the majority of the day, whether he had the chance to fuck himself or not. 

But it seemed like things were getting just a little bit out of hand. 

Often, now, he would reach between them to find his whimpering boy’s tiny cock only half hard, or even entirely soft. Most of the screaming orgasms he managed to wring from his boy were completely dry. 

Eventually, the habit started to slip into the rest of their lives. Rochefort didn’t mind at all when his pet absentmindedly shoved a hand down his pants when Rochefort brought him to meetings, or that he often cupped himself while at rest. Those things were acceptable, arousing, even. 

When he returned to the room to find no boy waiting for him, however, still busy stuffing himself full at both ends, Rochefort felt just the slightest bit irritated. 

The next morning, D’Artagnan woke groggy and stiff, but found that when he moved to stretch, his hands were caught in something. More than that, they were bound by something. With a groan, he blinked his eyes open and turned his head to seek his master, finding him sitting at the end of the bed, holding one of D’Artagnan’s toys.

“Morning, pet.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“It seems I’ve been negligent,” Rochefort smiled, the kind of smile that made D’Artagnan shiver with implications rather than one that warmed him like the sun. “I’ve forgotten to set my pet boundaries, and you’ve gone and taken your freedoms at your leisure. Greedy thing, you’ve become insatiable, haven’t you?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip, wriggling a little more in his restraints. They weren’t tight to hurt, they weren’t painfully tied. But the implication was clear; he couldn’t touch himself, couldn’t touch anything at all, this way.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not yet,” Rochefort grinned, standing up and walking around to the side of the bed to crouch face to face with his boy. “I’m putting some new rules in place, pet. For that hungry little hole of yours, and that naughty little cock.” he reached to flick his finger over D’Artagnan’s cockhead, already swelling in anticipation of being used.

“Your pleasure is mine to grant,” Rochefort told him, running just the tips of his fingers up the underside of D’Artagnan’s cock. It twitched against his belly, wet at the head and flushing red with need. 

By now. D’Artagnan was used to instant gratification. When Rochefort stopped touching him, he couldn’t help a shaky whine. 

“You’ve become a needy slut.” Rochefort pulled a long strip of thin leather from his pocket, slowly beginning to wrap it around D’Artagnan’s balls and the base of his cock. D’Artagnan squirmed, unable to help himself. “I like having a slut all to myself, but I don’t like missing out on the best part of tormenting you. This won’t keep you from coming, but it will make it more difficult.” Rochefort tied off the leather and gave D’Artagnan’s balls a quick tug, relishing his little gasp. 

“From now on, your practice is true practice. You can fill that empty hole as much as you need, but no more orgasms when I’m not here to grant you them. I’ll tie up your tiny little cock every day this week to remind you. And as for today…”

D’Artagnan swallowed, eyes wide as he looked at his Master.

“You do not come unless I’m here to see it, unless I tell you you can. What do you say, pet?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rochefort slapped his cock once, not enough to be truly painful, but enough to jar his boy back to attention. “And?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s better.” he sat up a little higher and pressed a chaste kiss to D’Artagnan’s lips, enough to show his boy this was a punishment for his own good, rather than for particularly bad misbehaviour. “Now, I can’t be negligible, you won’t know what to do with yourself if I train you harshly so my sweet boy,” he gently spread D’Artagnan’s legs and teased his fingers over his hole, “will be filled up, just how he craves,” the toy, the heavy stone toy that D’Artagnan so often squirmed against pressed up and into him, making D’Artagnan whine with need. “And be ready and open for his Master when I return.”

The toy bottomed out, filling him so deeply. D’Artagnan shivered, whimpering almost pitifully as he watched Rochefort finish getting ready for the day, leaving D’Artagnan with a final teasing flick to the weeping head of his cock. 

And then he was gone. 

The leather wrapped around him didn’t hurt, but it was a constant pressure, perpetual awareness that his Master was punishing him, making him into a good boy. Arousal built needy in his belly, and D’Artagnan tried to roll himself down into the toy. 

It was too much to ignore and not nearly enough to satisfy. D’Artagnan could get just enough leverage to leave him gasping, but not enough to release the pressure cooling within him. 

By the time Rochefort came to check on him, D’Artagnan was sobbing and in tears, rocking back and forth shallowly. His master smiled at him, watching his boy struggle as he slowly undressed and considered his weeping cock with pleasure.

“Needy little thing, are you aching for me?”

“Master, please!”

“What do you want, pet?”

“Please fuck me, sir,” 

“Is that all?” Rochefort crawled over his boy and worked free the bindings that held him, narrowing his eyes in amusement as he watched emotions war over the boy’s face. He could see D’Artagnan wanted to ask for release, but knew that this punishment was for his greediness in the first place. It was a lovely battle to behold. In the end, D’Artagnan shook his head, brows drawn in an achingly desperate expression.

“I want to please Master,” he said, “I want to show you what you do to me, clean myself up for you, please -”

“Polite when you want to be, aren’t you?” Rochefort replied, amused, he reached to slip the toy free of his pet, and set it aside, stroking soothingly over D’Artagnan’s thighs as he drew up his knees and spread his legs again. “You can come,” he added, “but this -” he tugged the leather gently, “stays on as you do.”

D’Artagnan whimpered helplessly, reaching up to welcome Rochefort into him. He slid in deep, deeper than D’Artagnan had managed to get the toy, filling him so much, so good. 

Rochefort sank into wet and willing warmth, D’Artagnan’s body tightening around him. The poor boy was eager, his cock straining red at the leather. Rochefort rolled onto his back, pulling D’Artagnan with him until the boy was perched in his lap. 

“Show me, pet. Show me how greedy you are.”

D’Artagnan threw his head back, rocking frantically over Rochefort’s hips. He sought the pleasure he’d been chasing all day, his thighs burning as he rose and fell over and over, hands braced over his Master’s chest. 

“Please,” he begged, “Please please please…”

The straps had not felt tight before, but now, with his body straining towards release, D’Artagnan found them unbearable. 

He wriggled and squeezed, riding his Master like it was his job and life calling, and Rochefort had to admit he loved the view. His pet was always beautiful, but when he was needy, when he was desperate to please, he was sin incarnate. He didn’t guide his boy so much as hold his thighs, squeezing his fingers into the flesh when D’Artagnan started to slow, encouraging him on.

“Now I know you missed me today,” Rochefort told him, dropping one arm behind his head as he watched D’Artagnan bounce on his cock, flushed and whining. His own bound little cock was leaking fluid, but bound tight enough not to make orgasm easy.

It was time his pet learned, after all.

“Filthy little thing, look what a mess you’re making,” the count chided him, smiling when D’Artagnan’s cheeks bloomed with blush at the words.

“I’m sorry Master,”

“No matter, you’ll clean it up, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir, yes -”

“But if you don’t come on my cock, pet, you don’t come at all, do you understand?”

D’Artagnan threw his head back with a sob, slowly coming apart at the seams. Any other day, those words would have been enough. He would have pulsed tight around Master and drawn his orgasm out as well. 

Today, it only sent the ache higher, hotter. D’Artagnan’s thighs quivered and his hands spasmed on Rochefort’s chest, and all that happened was his cock dribbled another bead of fluid over Rochefort’s stomach. 

“I can’t,” D’Artagnan pleaded. “Master, I can’t, it’s too tight.” 

“It’s exactly as tight as it needs to be.” Rochefort gripped D’Artagnan’s hips, hauling him down into the next rough thrust, grinding up against his sensitive prostate. 

D’Artagnan shook his head, frustration and need making him shudder. “I need to come, please let me come.”

“I’ve given you permission to, you’re the one delaying your own pleasure now.”

It was infuriating and painful, it was exhausting and an utter torment. Rochefort praised himself for a proper choice of punishment for his slutty little thing. Denial was always better than overwhelm; his boy would miss it so much, would ache for it, that any command would be taken as gospel again.

And he would train him to come this way, until the boy found pleasure only from Rochefort’s cock buried deep in him, not with his hands, not with his toys.

Then he might consider returning him freedom to play back to him.

He fucked into his pet with relish, his own head back and teeth gritted on the tightness of his boy, the squeezing spasms of his muscles, the sweet, aching whimpers falling from his lips. He came not long after, curling up to hold D’Artagnan near as he spilled into him, panting hot against his sweaty skin. A quick glance down determined that D’Artagnan was still painfully hard between his legs, and he grinned.

Good.

Let him work himself to madness with it, terrible boy.

He caught D’Artagnan’s chin and kissed him savagely, squeezing his jaw when he was done and pressing their foreheads together.

“Good boy taking care of Master so well,” he praised him. “Now. You’ll clean me up, eat your dinner, and get back in bed, pet. Go on.”

“But sir -”

The slap was sharp enough to reprimand, not enough to mark. “What did I say?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip and obeyed.

The next morning, after taking his languid pleasure fucking into his boy as the sun came up, Rochefort bound his boy again and kissed the center of his chest before sliding the toy into him and tapping it almost playfully in place.

“Be good,” he told him.

D’Artagnan’s rocking was twice as desperate this time, frantic in his panting. He was crying only moments after Master left, and when three hours later Master came to check on him, he was a mess of sweat, his stomach covered in the evidence of his attempts. 

Master fed him thick tastes of his mess, shoving D’Artagnan’s thighs over his shoulders and bending him in half. D’Artagnan writhed beneath him, trying to pull his Master harder and deeper into him. 

Instead, Master lifted his hips from the bed, taking his leverage away and filling him full of Master’s pleasure instead. 

Before he pulled out, he rubbed a hand gently over D’Artagnan’s stomach. “You’re so delicate,” Master said, “I wonder how full I can stuff you.”

He slid the toy back into D’Artagnan, trapping every bit of his seed inside him. 

“Master, please, no more,” D’Artagnan begged.

Master laughed and fucked the toy in and out of him a few times, angling it towards his prostate. “I’ll see you in two hours for a late lunch.”

D’Artagnan cursed, dropping his head back on the bed and whined. When Master closed the door, he outright screamed in frustration.

He had gotten used to bringing himself pleasure daily, more than once. He had grown used to being sated before Master even came home, happy to bring himself to pleasure again for him but not in agony of need.

Now he could barely breathe, drew his air in through sobs and whines, hips shoving the useless toy into himself trying to get it where he needed it to be and knowing it never would. Not without his hands. Not without Master.

When Rochefort returned, D’Artagnan cursed  _ him _ , eyes wide in panic as soon as the words left his mouth. But Master wasn’t angry, he was  _ delighted _ . He grabbed D’Artagnan’s legs and held his ankles together in one hand, lifting them up to reveal his bottom, still filled with the toy, his balls, tight and red with need. 

Rochefort whipped him until D’Artagnan was hiccuping with tears, and then he spread his legs wide and pulled the toy away to fuck into his pet once more.

Satisfied, he plugged his pet back up, bent to kiss his tear-salted lips, and warned him not to let a single drop slip free if he knew what was good for him. Before leaving D’Artagnan filthy and aching and needy for another few hours.

D’Artagnan was burning everywhere. He sobbed, clenching right around the toy inside him, but it was relatively thin and not made to keep him full. He could feel the trickle of seed between his thighs long before Master returned. 

Master’s smile was vicious when he saw what a mess D’Artagnan had made. He fed every spilled drop to him, while D’Artagnan begged for relief. Then he flipped D’Artagnan onto his belly, hauling him back onto his knees so he couldn’t grind against the bedding. 

“You were told, pet.” Behind him, D’Artagnan heard the woosh of the strap, a practice swing. He’d already taken a good few rounds with it, and he was both aching and dripping at the thought of taking more. “If your greedy hole can’t stay tight enough, I’ll have to beat you until you tighten up.”

The strap came down over the backs of his thighs. D’Artagnan screamed, pleasure and pain twisted up together. “I’m sorry, Master! I want to be good for you!”

“Then be good.” Came the calm answer.

In truth, Rochefort was prepared to ease his boy’s suffering that evening. A lesson was learned when that pitch in his voice stuttered and D’Artagnan forgot his own name. He would bind him up the next day, of course, but until then…

He whipped him only enough to bruise, only enough to wince at when the boy had to sit down. Then he put the strap away, took the toy out from between D’Artagnan’s legs, and lined himself up.

“You will be good,” he said, teasing him with shallow thrusts before pushing deeper in. D’Artagnan leaked with him with every thrust, filthy and filled like the slut he so often was for his master. “You will take what I give you, won’t you pet?”

“Yes, sir,” D’Artagnan sobbed. 

“You will take only the pleasure you’re allowed,”

“Yes, sir, only that.”

“You will show Master how good his cock makes you feel, won’t you?”

D’Artagnan nodded helplessly, catching himself against the sheets as Rochefort thrust harder, picking up his rhythm.

“Tell me you’ll be good.”

“I’ll be a good boy, sir, I’ll be a good pet for Master!”

Rochefort soothed him, bringing a hand down to work free the leather that had so bound his boy for two torturous days. He said nothing, just freed him, and then grasped hard to D’Artagnan’s hips to pound into him properly.

“Oh god…” D’Artagnan moaned, low and overwhelmed. The climax that had been held back all day came rushing through him. Rochefort’s thrusts jabbed over and over again at his prostate, and pleasure tore through D’Artagnan in violent waves. He broke, cresting over the peak with a pained shriek, spilling into the sheets below. 

He collapsed to his belly, Rochefort following after him, fucking him through the spasms. Each sharp roll of his hips forced another bead of fluid from D’Artagnan, until his cock was sliding wryly through soaked sheets. 

D’Artagnan didn’t dare beg for mercy. He took what Master gave him, gasping and whining as Master came  _ again _ , pulling out to splash over his red and bruised ass. 

D’Artagnan still felt the aftershocks of pleasure, all the way down into his fingertips. He shuddered when Master rubbed gently over his back, opening his mouth in a wordless daze to suck his release from Master’s fingers. 

“Have you learned your lesson, pet? Or should we try again tomorrow?”

“I’ve learned, sir,” he promised. “I’ve learned.”

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rochefort immediately dragged him close and pressed him to the bed, nose to nose, breath hot against D’Artagnan’s lips._
> 
> _“Did you convince him?”_
> 
> _D”Artagnan grinned. “I was persuasive,” he promised._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan is quite the commodity... 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: fisting, non-con, injury (not, surprisingly, from R to D)

_ “Be good.” _

That was all Master had said to him, a hand to his cheek, eyes narrowed in that way that suggested a smile was just about to peek through. He’d nodded to the man he’d given D’Artagnan to and turned to go, leaving them together, just the two of them, in one of the large rooms of the count’s estate.

_ “I want you to help me convince a man that an alliance is worth his time,” Rochefort said, stroking D’Artagnan’s hair from his face, the boy’s chest still rising and falling quickly as he came down from his orgasm, eyes hooded but following the count’s every motion. “Be persuasive as only you can be, pet. Don’t let me down.” _

D’Artagnan hated that another would use him, his body tensed against it in every possible way. But he had shown, now, several times, that he would rather end his own life than be without his master, and this was what Master wanted him to do.

So he would be good. He would be very good. And he would be persuasive.

The man Rochefort had left him with looked like no one special, looking no different to the soldiers who shared his master’s home. Dressed fancier, perhaps. Holding himself as Master did, because he was titled.

D’Artagnan couldn’t remember his title. He didn’t even know his name and he didn’t care.

He turned to the stranger, the man not yet convinced. He didn’t know what was expected of him, D’Artagnan’s intimate experiences were between him and Master, and one awful night he forced himself to forget any time it came to the surface, and that had hardly given him useful skills. He didn’t know how to be anything but himself.

So he bit his lip and cast blue eyes up to the taller figure, looking through his fringe and summoning a memory of his master to bring a blush to his cheeks and fill his cock with blood.

“I’m sorry, sir, you make me nervous,” he murmured. “I’m unsure what to say.”

“Aren’t you a sweet little thing?” The man said, cupping D’Artagnan’s jaw in his hand. D’Artagnan hoped he wouldn’t kiss him. He would throw up if this man kissed him. “Practically girlish.”

His fingers tangled in D’Artagnan’s hair, grown out past his shoulders again and far overdue for a cut. Master liked having a bit extra to pull on once in a while, but he’d probably cut it in the next week or so. Perhaps he’d been keeping it long for this specific occasion, for this man to touch and fondle. 

“I want to make you feel good,” D’Artagnan said, because it was something he would say to his Master, “Please, show me how?”

The man chuckled, voice too high, laugh too sharp. D’Artagnan’s skin itched. “Why don’t you start with your knees, pretty thing? I’m told you have a mouth on you.”

D’Artagnan let himself drop, slow and graceful. He would not hold this man, that was for Master and Master alone, but he could suck and swallow as much down as this man had to offer, if he had to. 

He tasted different to Master but not unpleasant. D’Artagnan took him deep, pretended to choke - because some nights Master relished making him choke - moved to suck just the head. He worked him over, moaned around the shaft, tilted his head into the hand that grasped his hair and tugged it, looking up when bidden.

Master often told him he was pretty. The man had told him he found him sweet, so that’s what D’Artagnan became. He whimpered and moaned, shivered and squirmed, bit his lip and pressed his hand to his face to try and hide his blush. When the man guided him to the bed, D’Artagnan stripped quickly, crawling into the center of the bed and dropping his chest to the sheets, spreading his thighs invitingly for the man to look, to groan as he stroked his cock and his breathing hitched.

There was oil, but D’Artagnan did not use it to prepare himself, this wasn’t Master. He curled his toes as one finger, then two, slipped into his ass and stretched him roughly open. These were different hands, unpracticed, not nearly as rough as Master’s were, but D’Artagnan responded to them as though he had never been touched so well.

Fucking felt good, not like it should have, but pleasant enough to make D’Artagnan uncomfortable. The man cared only for his own pleasure, but D’Artagnan knew from talking to Master that he would be expected to come. 

Coming without Master was forbidden now, though D’Artagnan was still permitted to play with himself and often did, getting worked up from hours of fucking himself with no relief. He found it easier than the books, his attention too sparse from them, text hurting his head after months without. 

But Master had given him not just permission, but a command. He was meant to come for this man, to make him feel virile and impressive. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and imagined Master’s hands all over him, Master tying him down for a beating with the strap. He moaned loudly, it had been far too long since he’d been properly beaten. 

The man liked his noises, liked holding his hair as if the curls were reins, liked whispering dirty things that D’Artagnan tuned out. He fucked deep and greedy, and D’Artagnan let his fantasies take over, until he was coming into the sheets with a hastily sobbed “Thank you, Sir,” the man following close behind. 

The man looked like he was wishing for a round two, when he laid down beside D’Artagnan only to see him lick his own seed up from the sheets. 

“He has you so well trained,” the man said, “I’ll have to ask him where he found a pretty whore like you.”

D’Artagnan just bit his lip again and ducked his head in what he hoped was a shy way. He had nothing to say to that. Some days he was certain he had always been with Master. They lay side by side for a while, the man touching D’Artagnan and asking him questions that didn’t really need answers. A distraction, just long enough to allow the man to harden again. D’Artagnan obediently spread his legs and allowed himself to be fucked again, biting the sheets and whimpering as he thought of Rochefort.

He left the man just before dawn, taking his clothes to hold in a bundle but not putting them on. Through the silent hallways to Master’s door, D’Artagnan dropped his clothes in a corner and moved to crawl into bed, yelping in surprise when Rochefort immediately dragged him close and pressed him to the bed, nose to nose, breath hot against D’Artagnan’s lips.

“Did you convince him?”

D”Artagnan grinned. “I was persuasive,” he promised.

Rochefort reached between them to squeeze his soft cock, just the right side of too tight. “Did you come for him?”

“Twice, Master.” D’Artagnan felt shame, even though he’d been commanded to. His orgasms were meant to be saved, and he’d given two of them to someone else. 

“You were my good little slut, hmm? Did you like showing off?” Rochefort’s hand slipped further, his fingers nudging where D’Artagnan was still open and slick. 

D’Artagnan hadn’t. He’d been uncomfortable and longing for Rochefort. Rather than say that, he moaned, thrusting back against Rochefort’s dry fingers. 

“Twice, and you still need it again?”

“I just need you, Master.”

Rochefort smiled, the dangerous smile he got before declaring a game, a challenge. “Even if I tell you that every orgasm you gave him is a day without one?”

D’Artagnan moaned and hooked his hands under his knees, pulling himself wider. “Please, Master, will you fuck me anyway? Use me for what I’m good for.”

Rochefort kissed him.

Several months without incident before Master asked this of him again. D’Artagnan wondered if it was because he’d started snapping at the people who attended Rochefort and didn’t do it properly. He now was the one to polish Master’s boots, he was the one to dust, and replace the books on their shelves after. He took care of their room and gave Master everything he needed from him, aching, moaning, screaming for him and pressing fingertips to the bruises Rochefort sucked against his skin.

This time, the man wasn’t someone Rochefort needed to convince, but someone he wanted to mollify. A man who often interrupted meetings with brashness and arguments, a man who D’Artagnan detested for the sole reason that he irritated his master.

“Be good,” Rochefort told him, drawing his nose against D’Artagnan’s hair before turning him around and sending him out the door.

For once, D’Artagnan did not want to be good, and was fortunate in that regard. The man was rough tempered and aggressive. He’d requested something he could dominate, a crying, scared little thing. D’Artagnan was not afraid of him, but he knew how to pretend to be. 

“I was s-sent for you, Sir,” D’Artagnan stammered when he was ushered into the room, “a g-gift from the master of the house.”

The man had big hands, a broad chest that pinned D’Artagnan to the bed, but he was not what D’Artagnan expected from a rough, forceful fuck. D’Artagnan had had much worse before. 

He was meant to come for this one, too, or rather to be made to come. The man held him down by the back of his neck, shoving into him in rough, sharp rolls of his hips while D’Artagnan cried for him. 

“Please, Sir, it hurts.” It didn’t. “It’s too much.” It wasn’t. “Please stop, I’ll do anything, please, it hurts so badly.”

“Take it,” the man growled, holding D’Artagnan awkwardly, fucking into him in a way that couldn’t be pleasurable for him, it certainly wasn’t for D’Artagnan. “Cry for me like you cry for your insufferable count.”

D’Artagnan grit his teeth and whined, aiming for pained and hoping his anger didn’t come through from the back of his throat. He wanted to tear the man to pieces with his teeth. He wanted to bring his master his heart still steaming. He would have, but he had to be good. He had to be little and weak and weeping.

He sobbed instead.

“God you’re so tight,” the man groaned, bringing a hand down to fumble over D’Artagnan’s chest and nipples. It felt more awkward than anything else. D’Artagnan grit his teeth and thought of how Rochefort would bite him instead, tugging his nipples with his teeth until it was almost too much, until the pain was white hot behind his eyes. He could come from that alone, now, because it pleased Master so much.

He thought of Rochefort’s hands, large and rough against him. He’d stroke D’Artagnan sometimes, teasing him, whispering to him that he wasn’t allowed to come, not until Rochefort told him he wanted him to. He brought D’Artagnan to tears with that game, he adored it.

D’Artagnan shuddered beneath this man, now, eyes closed to him, and came, trembling. He affected another sob, tried to crawl away only to be caught again and yanked back on the man’s cock as he continued to rut hard against him, working himself closer to orgasm, imagining that it was his body and his cock and his hands that brought such a beautiful boy to heel.

When it was over, D’Artagnan curled himself into a tight, tiny ball, affecting little hiccups and whimpers, until the man decided to ‘shut him up’ with a cock in his throat. He gagged and drooled like he’d never sucked cock before, faked choking and strangled sobs.

He was a mess when the man shoved him out the door, semen and saliva coating his face, more seed between his thighs. D’Artagnan returned to their room with his head high, pleased with himself for his obedience.

Rochefort was pleased with him too, though he called him a filthy thing as he wiped his face clean. D’Artagnan held still for him, spreading his thighs for inspection when he was commanded.

“Did he hurt you, pet?” Rochefort asked, running a finger over his rim. 

“He thought he did. He wasn’t very good at it.”

“No, he’s not very good at many things,” Rochefort agreed, bending D’Artagnan over the edge of the bed, “But too high born to be rid of easily.”

His Master beat him, then, reminded him what it was like to be hurt  _ properly _ . He whipped him bloody in some spots, leaving new scars behind, striking him until D’Artagnan’s sobs were raw and he was coming all over their bedding.

When Master fucked him afterwards, though, it was slow and sweet, whispering in D’Artagnan’s ear how very good he was. D’Artagnan relished the praise. 

For several weeks, no more interested parties. Or, perhaps, none that Rochefort felt were worth sending D’Artagnan to while his new scars healed up. It wasn’t that he was cruel to him, or kind, there just seemed to be a different sort of connection between the two of them now; an understanding that had been forged the night D’Artagnan had killed the silly thing invading his master’s bed - though at his master’s behest.

D’Artagnan was determined to make himself irreplaceable and invaluable.

Rochefort was merely curious to see how far he could stretch that dedication.

One night, D’Artagnan was sent to a room with one of the men who had raped him all those months ago, one of the soldiers calling him filthy things and taking immense pleasure in hurting him. This was also the man, he realized with a start, who had walked in when Master had fucked him over the meeting table after D’Artagnan had cleaned his boots, and stayed to watch for just a moment as D’Artagnan was taken apart.

That night, D’Artagnan was obedient but wary, eyes wide in panic, mouth closed tight and heat hammering. The soldier didn’t try to make him behave differently, in fact, there seemed to be so much guilt in his eyes that he could barely look at the boy at all. In the end, D’Artagnan had the mercy of a pillow at his cheek with the man behind him when he took his pleasure.

D’Artagnan didn’t come.

The soldier didn’t make him.

Rochefort did not punish the disobedience; he made the boy come himself instead. A reward for good behaviour, for going where he had to, to do what Master wanted, despite his panic and disgust. He truly owned the little thing now; and it was as amazing as it was frightening.

During the day. D’Artagnan took care of their room, though there was really not much to do there. He would clean out the fireplace of ashes, he would - unnecessarily - wash the windows as far as his arms could reach, even standing on Master’s chair, he made the bed and rewarded himself with a deep slow fucking where he edged himself to the point of near-madness and forced himself not to come.

At night, he met his master at the door, had his dinner, warmed his cock as Master read by the fire, and relished in whatever position Master wanted him in, in bed after. He was contented. He was  _ happy _ .

The next time D’Artagnan was sent, he was greeted by a man tall and broad, bigger than him, bigger even than Master. 

Rochefort had seemed particularly on edge when it came to this barter. 

_ “He wants a war, pet, and he’ll get one if things stay as they are.” _

It was the closest Rochefort had ever come to discussing his responsibilities with D’Artagnan, so D’Artagnan had nodded fiercely, had promised nothing less than his best behavior. 

_ “Whatever he wants, pet. Treat him as you would me.” _

And D’Artagnan had tried, he really had, but the second he opened his mouth, he found it stuffed full of cloth. 

The man stripped him roughly and bent him over the foot of the bed, arms stretched wide and bound to the bed posts, ankles pulled apart the same way. None of the other men had bound him. None of the other men had taken control from him in this way, so sudden, so silent. D’Artagnan tugged and whimpered when the ropes tightened further. 

“Do you cry for him?” The man asked, petting a hand down D’Artagnan’s trembling spine. “What will it take to make you cry for me?”

_ Nothing _ , D’Artagnan thought.  _ Nothing, nothing, nothing _ . Outwardly, he whimpered a little, enough to show sufficient discomfort, enough to show sufficient submission. It would be enough, he hoped, to fuel the man’s fantasies for however long he had D’Artagnan before he could return to Master.

He hated leaving when Master was worried. He needed to be there to soothe him, it was his whole reason for being.

A hand grabbed his hair and pulled and D’Artagnan bared his teeth around the cloth as he looked up at the man who held him. His breath smelled rancid, his skin reeked of sweat. D’Artagnan groaned.

“You know, your count won’t even lend a horse to a soldier, if his had gone lame, but he sells your ass to anyone who asks him. Sometimes he just gives you up, did you know that? Couldn’t care less what happens to his precious little slut as long as I’m happy. He said I could do whatever I wanted to you. Talked up that whore mouth of yours, your tight little ass and how pretty you bruise up.” He leaned nearer and D’Artagnan finched. “You might not be so tight when he gets you back.”

D’Artagnan tried to ease his stuttered breathing. He knew his Master traded him away sometimes, that was not news. He knew Master bragged about him, but could not reconcile that with the way this man talked to him. And he didn’t, he  _ couldn’t _ believe that Master tossed him away without a care. Even if it was true, somehow, D’Artagnan could not let the thought live in his head, not if he wanted to keep going.

Two fingers slid into him, liberally oiled, to D’Artagnan’s surprise. He’d been expecting tearing, but between the oil, the stretch of his limbs, and the fucking he’d had earlier that day, the fingers found no resistance. They fucked him slowly, curved on the withdrawal, pulling shaky breaths from D’Artagnan. 

The third was fine, if unexpected. D’Artagnan’s cock rubbed against the bedspread on particularly deep thrusts, enough for his eyes to flutter closed.

The fourth finger gave him pause. He clenched up, trying to pull his thighs closed, his toes sliding on the floor. A heavy hand came down sharply on his ass.

“Don’t get bratty on me now, we’ve got a long way to go. I have a whole bag full of goodies for you.”

D’Artagnan made another sound of protest and groaned into the gag in his mouth as he was spanked again, the fingers twisting inside him and stretching him obscenely wide. He’d never been opened like this before, it made him feel so vulnerable he couldn’t even express it and it was starting to truly hurt. This felt like a violation as others before hadn’t, this was something Master had never done to him, something that wasn’t supposed to be done, and yet the man behind him was now working his thumb against his stretched rim and D’Artagnan bucked against the bed with a whimper.

“I don’t want to tear you, boy, but I will if you make me,” came the low rumble of a reply. “I will fuck you how I want to fuck you, and you will take it, and it would serve you well to be still and obedient for it.”

D’Artagnan whined, a low and weak noise that was muffled by the thing in his mouth. His entire throat was dry, he felt like he was going to be sick, he needed to breathe and he couldn’t and everything hurt and he couldn’t get away and -

He tongued the gag hard, shoving it against the backs of his teeth, turning his head harshly in the sheets as the man continued to stretch him, uncaring for D’Artagnan’s plight. He fought to regain his voice because he couldn’t allow himself to think about the agony between his legs, the tightness, the pressure, and it got worse, because the other was still pushing in, still determined to -

“No!” D’Artagnan panted, the cloth spilling from between his lips like blood until he turned his face aside. “No, it hurts, please -”

The pain ceased as the fingers slid from him, but D’Artagnan’s relief lasted only seconds. Two large hands wrapped all the way around his throat, hauling him up off the bed until his arms screamed in pain and he could move no further. 

“I will do what I like with you,” the man said over D’Artagnan’s frantic choking,”I will do it whether you are conscious or not, and we will see how feeble-minded you are when you wake.” 

His grip tightened painfully. D’Artagnan’s vision tunneled. 

“Or you can behave like a good slut and live to see the morning.”

This man wouldn’t kill him. He couldn’t. Master wouldn’t let him.

Or maybe he would, and deal with Master’s ire later.

D’Artagnan sobbed as he was shoved forward again, the cloth shoved into his mouth once more. 

Three fingers, quicker this time, and a fourth, and then the thumb nudged at him and D’Artagnan cried and clenched, but it slipped in anyway. The whole width of the man’s hand, fingers wriggling painfully as he began to curl them, to force the rest of his hand into D’Artagnan’s body.

D’Artagnan felt like he was being cut in half, like someone was tearing him apart. Even the first time his Master had taken him, it hadn’t felt this awful. This was a cruelty D’Artagnan never considered was even possible.

He didn’t think the hand would fit, but it did, and even then there was no relief. D’Artagnan choked on a wail and pressed his tears into the already damp sheets under his face. This man didn’t want to fuck him, not like the others hand. This man wanted to break a toy his rival enjoyed.

So D’Artagnan forced himself to bear it, sobbing because it hurt, not because he had to put on an act. Whimpering when the man bent over him to whisper filth into his ear, remind him what D’Artagnan was, what he was good for, and that he wasn’t even good at that.

He endured until endurance felt impossible, and only then did the man free his fist from him and D’Artagnan nearly choked with how nausea flooded him with the relief.

The man slipped his hand between D’Artagnan’s thighs and tugged roughly at his soft cock. “Is that it? A good slut would have gotten hard for me.”

He stepped back, and over his sniffling, D’Artagnan heard him rifling through his bag. And then…

Pain. Sharp, and raw, over his back, his ass, his thighs. D’Artagnan had been beaten before, for discipline and for pleasure, but he was already raw and aching. And the man did not have his Master’s precision, his aim. Or his care.

Over, and over, from his shoulders and down, all the way down, until the man struck the back of his knees and made him scream. 

“There we go, that’s what I want from you.”

The man whipped him bloody, broke skin and struck places Master had never struck, and then went harder. On and on, and D’Artagnan screamed. Screamed and thrashed, and  _ pulled _ .

Something popped, jerked, and D’Artagnan’s shoulder was in agony, burning brighter with every twist of his body. 

He felt sick, he couldn’t breathe, his vision was tunneling and still the man beat him. So D’Artagnan gave into it, let it happen, let his body cloister him behind protective warmth and smother him into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These had not been the halting words of a bored pet. No, it was the practiced gibberish of isolation, of someone who’d done the same thing, many times over._
> 
> A surprisingly gentle chapter... with scary stuff beneath. Welp.

D’Artagnan woke with a scream, a short and sharp sound that seemed to echo in his ears. He ached like he hadn’t in months and months, and he was cold, he was so, so cold.

“Breathe, pet, I’ve put your shoulder back in. You need to rest it.”

“‘M sorry,” D’Artagnan mumbled, trying to swallow the bile down that was threatening to come up his throat at any moment. “I’m sorry I tried, I tried to be good, I did everything he said I -”

“I know.”

D’Artagnan whimpered and turned his face into the sheets beneath him. Familiar sheets. Sheets that smelled like him and Master. He was back in their room and he was safe, and Master wasn’t hurting him, Master said he knew D’Artagnan had tried. He sobbed, bit his lip, and when a familiar palm slipped beneath his cheek to hold him near, D’Artagnan cried in earnest, nuzzling his master’s hand.

“Hush, pet, hush,” Master said, his other hand coming up to card through D’Artagnan’s curls. “You did well. You did so very well. I’m proud of you.”

D’Artagnan choked on his next sob, startled and desperately hopeful. He blinked up at Master, whose compliments were always such simple ones. Pretty pet. Good pet. Obedient pet. 

_ Pride _ , though, that was another matter entirely, and when Master smiled at him, D’Artagnan’s tears overflowed again. 

“Silly little thing,” Rochefort said, kissing the boy’s forehead. “You helped me prevent a war tonight. As if I could be anything but proud.”

D’Artagnan was such an easy pet to keep, soothed with such simple things. Rochefort pet his head until he was drifting, until the attendants had finished filling the bath and he could wave them away. 

There had been no blood between his legs, just the mess on his back and thighs, but the events of the night had clearly taken their toll on the boy, and he’d earned a treat. Rochefort lifted him carefully, hushing his little whimpers as his shoulder was jostled. 

“We’ll bind it still for you afterward, pet. You’ll like this, I promise.”

Since that one time the soldier had come to help D’Artagnan bathe, no one had ever bathed him since he was a small child. Now, he was encouraged to press to Master’s chest as they both settled into the tub filled with steaming water. Everything stung. Everything hurt. But Master held him so close, and so gently, that D’Artagnan was soon drifting, eyes half open and glazed.

Rochefort cupped water in his hands to pour over the boy’s back, watching it reveal which welts were bruising and which had actually cut. His back and bottom and thighs were a horrific sight, Rochefort’s lips twisted in disgust just looking. He hardly had qualms about leaving his pet with scars, but this was not his work, this had not been by his hand. He cleaned the worst of the blood without touching D’Artagnan at all before lightly using his fingers to clear away dried, scabbed blood so the cuts could heal.

His other hand he kept in D’Artagnan’s hair, stroking gently over his scalp as the boy sobbed against him or just pressed close, shaking. 

Neither spoke. Rochefort had said all he’d needed to say. He felt bitter that the boy had had to go at all but… things were at stake that were much bigger than he or the boy. Things that could escalate, things that could turn to brutal violence.

He cleaned gently between the boy’s legs, hushing him when D’Artagnan squirmed. He eased a hand against his neck, over his uninjured shoulder, and held him close to let him float in the water until it started to grow cool.

He didn’t touch his boy that night, just lay him carefully in bed and lay down beside him. Neither slept particularly well.

* * *

Master made him keep his arm bound for days. Tightly wrapped in cloth against his chest, unable to move an inch and only taken out twice a day for Master to check him and help him stretch, before promptly binding him again.

D’Artagnan’s memories of injuries were vague and fuzzy, as was anything from before his Master, which he had deliberately put out of his mind and forgotten. He was still fairly certain that Master was keeping him bound longer than necessary. He suspected Master liked that he was a little more helpless this way, clumsily maneuvering things with his left hand, struggling to keep himself propped up when they fucked. 

It made everything more difficult while Master was gone, too. D’Artagnan only rarely attempted to focus on the books, and now he couldn’t keep them properly held open. Even his practice was difficult, awkwardly fucking himself with his left hand until he had to give up and clean his toys away, frustrated in a far less pleasant manner than usual.

In the end, D’Artagnan fell back on his other habits, ones he partook in every day, but now found himself heavily dependant on. He laid back in the bed, humming to himself, telling himself stories.

He was barely aware now of how often he spoke to himself, narrating his thoughts in hushed, winding whispers, disjointed sentences that meandered or interrupted themselves. Soft babbling to fill the silence of being alone, a comfort he’d developed in the first few weeks with Master, and which he’d become dependent on to keep himself company. 

He didn’t talk about anything in particular, or to anyone in particular. There were never any names, no changes to his voice as though more than one person were talking. He just spoke, and it helped the room feel less cavernous. Sometimes he would sing, songs he’d heard his mother or the milkmaids singing together, songs he made up himself with no tune to them at all. He lost time, when he did this, and he felt as free as he did when Master kissed him.

Rochefort, when he spent his days at the estate and not out, would often stop by his own door throughout the day to listen. At first, it had been to delight in the frustrated sounds the boy made trying to free himself from the shackle. Later, it was just for curiosity’s sake, to listen to what the boy had gotten up to without him. More often than not, now, it was because he’d rather have the boy with him, but couldn’t.

This was the most severe injury D’Artagnan had yet sustained and he would be useless to Rochefort if he aggravated it further.

Now, when he leaned silently against the door, he listened as D’Artagnan spoke. For a brief, cold moment, he wondered who he was speaking to, who had entered the room without his consent, who was talking to  _ his pet _ , but he soon realized that there  _ was _ no one else. It was just D’Artagnan.

Just his boy, speaking in nonsense. The sentences didn’t seem to quite line up with one another, one thought jarringly tipping over into the next. As Rochefort listened, the boy went from a nonsensical rhyme about the rain, to a halted recounting of their morning that stuttered to a halt when D’Artagnan got stuck on Rochefort himself.

“And then he fixed the bandages and he likes it he  _ likes _ it no. No, Master doesn’t like it, his toy, someone else broke it, he was mad I know he was mad he didn’t say it but I know Master, I know him, I know him, I know him…”

This trailed off into another song, almost a whisper, just those words and then just the tune in a wordless hum. It was only when the boy started in on the day’s weather again that Rochefort realized how long he’d been standing there. 

These had not been the halting words of a bored pet. No, it was the practiced gibberish of isolation, of someone who’d done the same thing, many times over.

“Master will have deer, I think, venison for dinner because yesterday was chicken, and the day before that was duck, and I didn’t like the duck but he let me lick his fingers and that was good it’s always good with Master and maybe today I was good and I’ll get to lick, I’ll… I’ll…”

It had to be a bit lonely, stuck in the room all day. D’Artagnan never complained, but he had not complained about his shoulder, either, or the way he’d been left gaping, and Rochefort knew both had hurt him dearly. Perhaps he didn’t have enough books. Perhaps Rochefort would need to take a trip to buy him some more to his liking, because this… 

This was too strange. It drew a shiver up the count’s back that he didn’t appreciate. With a hum too quiet to be heard through the door he left his boy to it for the moment. He wasn’t hurting himself, he wasn’t doing anything to make himself impossible to use. This he could excuse as he excused the ‘practice’, unless this, too, got out of hand.

When he returned in the evening, D’Artagnan was on his knees by the door, hair fluffy from a nap he’d taken, eyes wide with the genuine joy he always took with greeting and serving Rochefort. He gestured for the boy to stand, stepped close and kissed him, smiling at how the boy always melted into it as though Rochefort had never or would never kiss him again. He really was a sweet thing.

“You’ve been very good for me,” Rochefort told him, passing D’Artagnan his dinner as he moved to the table to take a seat, D’Artagnan following to sit on the floor beside him. “And pets need to be taken for walks, once in a while.”

D’Artagnan blinked up at him, wriggling where he sat, too excited to say anything, too confused as to what could possibly be coming. Would he join Master at meetings again? Would he walk with him through halls and rooms and wide kitchens that smelled of every sort of thing?

Rochefort smiled suddenly, tilting his head at his boy. “Besides, I’ve given you plenty of riding practice, I expect your balance to be impeccable on a horse.”

D’Artagnan got stuck for a minute on riding, shivering happily at the thought. With his right arm bound so tightly, it had been  _ days _ since he’d gotten any good practice in, and while Master still used him every morning and every night, he was used to far more stimulation than he was getting.

Then the rest of the thought caught up, tumbling over itself, skidding to a halt because none of the words Master was saying quite fit into D’Artagnan’s very small world. 

A horse. A  _ horse _ . He’d had a horse once, hadn’t he? A pretty thing, and he’d brushed her and ridden her and oh, oh,  _ oh _ this was better than practice, better than when Master started giving D’Artagnan smaller portions of the same meals he received,  _ almost _ as good as warming Master with his mouth while he was read to. 

And it was  _ summer _ , D’Artagnan knew because Master no longer lit the fire unless it was a particularly chilly night, and summer would be warm, and the sun would hit his face, and there would be a  _ horse _ .

“Please,” he gasped, placing his free hand on Master’s knee, dinner forgotten. “Please, Master, oh god, I want to, I want to go for a walk, please, I’ll be  _ so  _ good.”

“I know,” Rochefort told him, his smile warm. “Eat your dinner, pet.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, eating quickly but carefully, making sure not to leave anything behind and sucking his fingers clean to avoid a mess. He sat at Master’s feet until he was finished, relishing his dinner and in making his pet wait. He hadn’t coaxed him near to take his cock in his mouth as he did many evenings, he did nothing at all in fact, just let D’Artagnan vibrate in his excitement.

His back had healed up almost entirely, as had his thighs. Rochefort supposed he’d kept his boy tied down long enough for his shoulder to not pain him much either. When Rochefort had finished his meal he reached out to stroke D’Artagnan’s hair, moved to free his arm from the sling he had tied him in.

“Did you miss me today, pet?” He asked.

“Yes,” D’Artagnan breathed, eyes wide, lips wide in a smile. “Yes, desperately.”

“Will you show me, then?”

D’Artagnan looked as pleased as he had at the very notion of going for a walk. He nodded frantically, rising up on his knees with both hands now on Rochefort’s thighs. He never initiated their kisses, but the second Rochefort indulged him he surged up, overeager and slightly sloppy. Rochefort leaned back in his chair, letting D’Artagnan practically climb him, settling over his thighs with a happy little sigh.

The boy was not as wet or as open as Rochefort was used to, licking his own palm to slick Rochefort up, but he dropped onto Rochefort’s cock with the same blissful moan he always did. 

“Out of practice, pet?” Rochefort teased, as if he was not well aware of D’Artagnan’s daily struggles with his bound arm. D’Artagnan pouted, but that soon faded away as he rocked in Rochefort’s lap, seeking his rhythm.

Rochefort rested his hands on D’Artagnan’s hips, but did not guide him, letting him fuck himself at his own pace. Slow, languid rolls of his hips became frantic grinding, D’Artagnan’s voice pitching high.

“Slow, pet,” Rochefort murmured in his ear, tugging at the lobe with his teeth, “No one told you to come. Don’t you want to make me feel good, first?”

D'Artagnan's body shuddered in pleasure and he nodded, his hands up against Rochefort's still clothed chest to hold himself steady, tracing the brocade pattern with his fingertips.

"I always want to make you feel good," he admitted, tensing his muscles and easing up off Rochefort's cock before sinking back down. He bit his lip and kept his pace slow,rolled his hips to make Rochefort's breath hitch, just enough to notice.

If Master told him he could never come again, but could bring him pleasure like this every day, D'Artagnan would never get off his lap.

His pleasure was worth everything.

"Have you been obedient?" Rochefort asked him, cupping his face and curling fingers in D'Artagnan's hair. "Have you kept your pleasure at bay?"

"Yes, Master, I've been good."

"How close did you bring yourself? Using your toy?"

D'Artagnan whimpered, thighs trembling as he sped up his pace just a little,his cock leaking between them.

"Very," he whispered.

Rochefort tilted the boy’s head back, until their noses brushed, until he could see how hard it was for D’Artagnan to resist a kiss. “Right up to the edge? Did you leak all over yourself and whine when you stopped?”

“Yeah,” D’Artagnan whined, the exact same whine Rochefort had been picturing. Rochefort brushed their lips together, a light, chaste grip, and then released him to grab his hips instead.

“How many times?” he asked, pulling D’Artagnan down as he thrust his hips up. The boy gave a needy cry, head thrown back, the curve of his throat a tempting canvas.

“Th-three,” D’Artagnan gasped, “Master,  _ please _ …”

“Not yet.” Rochefort’s own hands were slick with sweat, his body tense as he drove into his boy. “Three, pet, you usually do much better than that.”

“My arm,” D’Artagnan protested, the rest of his sentence lost to a low moan, his knees pressing into Rochefort’s thighs as the boy tried to close his legs, to instinctively protect himself from the onslaught of sensation. 

“Excuses,” Rochefort teased, tilting the boy back in his lap to bite at his chest. It changed the angle, forcing D’Artagnan into keening cries.

“Please, Master,  _ please _ , I can’t hold back.”

"If you come before I do, I'll bind up that little cock of yours for the entire day tomorrow." Rochefort warned him, and D'Artagnan came with a cry - as both knew he would. The count grinned, sucking a nipple between his lips as D'Artagnan trembled and squirmed in his lap, flushed and beautiful.

"I'm sorry -"

"You're not." Rochefort told him, amused, yanking the boy near to fuck into him harder, properly. "Perhaps you will be, tomorrow."

D'Artagnan just nodded, helpless and pliant. He met every thrust into him, tried to hold as still as possible when Rochefort bit and tugged his nipple, the pain flaring through his small form and straight to his cock.

He could get hard again quickly. He would. He was most contented when his body was on edge, stressed to the point of pain but still trembling nearer to pleasure.

"Master," he breathed, smiling when an answer was hummed against his throat. "Will you beat me for disobeying?"

"I should."

"Please," D'Artagnan's breath hitched as he dropped his hand to stroke himself up again. "Please, Master,"

“Greedy,” Rochefort panted, “Greedy, filthy,  _ slut _ .”

D’Artagnan moaned and writhed in his lap, letting Rochefort have his fill of him, letting his master flood him full and suck a bruise into his throat as he came.

When he could breathe again, when his cock stopped pulsing wave after wave of pleasure into D’Artagnan, Rochefort swatted the boy’s hand away from his cock.

“No,” he growled, watching the pleasure ripple through his pet, “no, naughty thing, if you come again tonight it will be at the end of my belt.

D’Artagnan dropped against his chest and begged.

* * *

In the morning, Rochefort rolled D’Artagnan onto his back, relishing in his hiss of pain. He’d bound the boy’s arm again, and now he bound his cock, twists and turns of a thin leather cord that he knew from experience would drive the boy to absolute ruin by the end of the day. 

Only  _ then _ did D’Artagnan get his morning fuck, slow and lazy, drawing out the torment until Rochefort pulled out to come over the boy’s thighs and watch him lap it up.

D’Artagnan was hazy-eyed when Rochefort indicated for him to dress, though his dreamy smile faltered as he pulled the items on. The boy always acted like he was wearing sandpaper instead of silk and linen.

It never occurred to him to consider that except the few times the boy had left this room, he hadn’t worn a stitch of clothing for almost an entire year.

A year. Of captivity and conditioning and punishment and pleasure. A year that Rochefort had enjoyed taming and then claiming this beautiful, hungry, slip of a boy.

Time did fly.

Once dressed, the count led his boy through the house, not even bothering to look behind him to see if the boy followed. He knew he would. He still remembered the night he’d tried to forcibly send D’Artagnan away, how that had ended with another boy dead and D’Artagnan beautiful and wild in his bed.

He followed because he wanted to.

Because Rochefort had trained him to believe that he wanted to.

In the stables, he allowed D’Artagnan to walk between the stalls and touch the horses as he wished. The horse D’Artagnan had once ridden was not in the stables, it had been let free to run back home when D’Artagnan had been taken. They would share a horse, this first time, and then perhaps D’Artagnan would be permitted to choose one of his own for when they went riding.

D’Artagnan had been shaking with his excitement the whole way to the stables, but now he calmed, soothed so easily by the animals. They were sweet, quiet. Good. D’Artagnan liked that they were good.

_ (There was something missing, he knew, in the back of his mind, but that would hurt and so he sent it to the place where he put all the things that hurt, and in the decades to come, he never once thought of it again.) _

All the horses were well trained, sniffing at him and letting him pet them with his free hand. He looked around for brushes, for treats, but before he could find any, Master called to him.

“This one, pet.”

_ This one _ was a deep brown stallion, about 16 hands, with a black mane that D’Artagnan wanted to sink his hands into. He didn’t, because this was clearly Master’s horse, and D’Artagnan did not touch Master’s things without permission. Not even himself.

The stallion was already saddled. Master led it out of its stall and then, to D’Artagnan’s mingled surprise and delight, hefted D’Artagnan up and settled him onto the saddle, swinging up behind him a moment after.

He hadn’t been on a horse this high before, but he was sitting so high, and so close to Master, and  _ outside _ … he couldn’t remember the last time he had been outside. He had seen outside, he had seen the seasons change, had watched leaves fall from the trees and rain batter the roofs of the smaller buildings.

But now he was outside with Master, breathing in different air, feeling the sun on his face when the horse walked steadily out of the stables.

He let himself touch the horse’s mane now, as Master clicked his tongue and the stallion picked up its pace. D’Artagnan could not remember the last time he was so happy. He turned a brief and bright grin over his shoulder at his master and was delighted to see the smile returned, though perhaps not as enthusiastic.

“Where are we going to ride?” He asked.

Rochefort hummed, hands loose against his thighs where he held the reigns. “The village nearby hosts a summer market for the first harvest.”

“A market?”

“All manner of people and things.” Rochefort replied. “A day to enjoy it.”

A  _ market _ . There would be fruit, and breads and cheeses. Cloth, maybe. D’Artagnan squirmed a little, excited. Maybe Master would let him help pick, if he was very good and quiet while they shopped?

The ride was uneventful. Occasionally, D’Artagnan would shift against the saddle, or Master’s hand would rest on his hip to help him balance, and D’Artagnan would remember his cock, denied and bound tight. The pants were too loose to worry about showing it, but occasionally the fabric rubbed against the head and drew a soft sigh from him. 

For once, though, the permanent thrum of arousal that D’Artagnan had been trained into was  _ not  _ the center of his attention. There was so much to see, so much trickling into his senses. 

The sun, warm on his face, his neck. The smell of the grass and the plants, almost overpowering. He could hear birds. There were  _ birds _ . 

“Do you hunt?” D’Artagnan asked. He remembered pheasant, once or twice, and venison often. 

“On occasion,” Master told him, “but rarely. There are others who stock our larders.”

Birds. Deer. A rabbit scampering under a bush. D’Artagnan felt overwhelmed with all the sights. He closed his eyes, leaning back to feel Master’s body against his and just enjoying the ride.

Rochefort considered the boy against him, he forgot sometimes how small he was, how fragile. He fed him well enough, but little, and D’Artagnan hadn’t had any exercise for months beyond how thoroughly they fucked each other night after night.

If he let him go, now, he knew that D’Artagnan would not run far, he wouldn’t be able to.

He imagined for a moment, how lovely the young man would look if he was able to ride, and hunt, and fight as he had before Rochefort had taken him. He would be radiant. And perhaps still could be, in another life.

He stroked his hands over D’Artagnan’s thighs, not to tease him but to hold him near, to feel the boy squirm back against him and make those lovely soft noises of pleasure.

Rochefort didn’t often go to the village, he wasn’t particularly welcome there. People stared him down if they dared, or avoided him entirely. More often than not someone else went to the market, someone else brought back clothing and food and ran errands. It was as novel, almost, for him as it would be for D’Artagnan to ride through it today.

It was not a particularly large village, but bustling, especially at week’s end, on a sunny summer day as this one. Rochefort led them down towards the river, where the market would be set up. Even the baker had closed up shop and built himself a display today, hoping to entice. 

Rochefort had expected excitement, perhaps even babbling or sweetly worded requests. His boy was a squirmy little thing, particularly when his pleasure was denied, yet the closer they got to the market, the more D’Artagnan stilled. Eventually, he let out a little mewl of distress, turning to tuck his face into Rochefort’s vest. 

He was as helpless and dependent as a child. Rochefort made sure his boy would never need worry about adult cares, that he would forever be this sweet little creature. Still, he often forgot that little things were fearful, that D’Artagnan’s bravery showed itself only when he sensed a threat to his life with his master, and that beyond that, Rochefort had taught him to be timid and easily gentled. 

“What’s this then, pet?” He asked, coaxing D’Artagnan’s head up with a gentle hand on his chin, “Don’t you want to see?”

Seeing was the problem. And hearing, and smelling. So many people, so much noise, and to D’Artagnan’s ears they all may as well have been screaming. The open space that had fascinated him at first now felt dangerous and terrifying. He wanted to be back in their room, where he knew every step, every crack, the placement of every object. 

"There's a lot," D'Artagnan admitted after a moment, still clinging to his master with his unbound hand. He made another effort to look out and his heart beat too quickly in his chest,his head felt like it would float off his shoulders.

"There are so many people."

There were, it was a market. Rochefort set a hand to D'Artagnan's hair and settled him back against himself. Perhaps they should ride back, return to the estate and the safety of the quiet there.

But the count had a morbid curiosity as to what his boy would do, should they stay.

"What else, pet?"

"Sounds, a lot of new sounds." D'Artagnan hiccuped, turning to look out again at the people and happenings beyond. "New smells."

"What do you smell?"

"Horses, earth, beer," he replied, squirming a little but some of his tension was easing. "Bread, fresh bread."

"Shall I get you some, then?"

Rochefort could feel the flutter of his boy’s little rabbit heart when he let his hand slide down to his throat. He shared his better things with D’Artagnan now, but no one could resist the lure of bread baked only that morning. 

“Will you, please?” D’Artagnan asked, hesitant, clearly uncertain whether requests would be welcomed. 

“If you get down from the horse and walk with me.” He let his hand drop further, rubbing it over D’Artagnan’s belly as though to soothe a stomachache. D’Artagnan heaved a shaky sigh. 

“Yes, sir.”

Rochefort slid from the horse, reaching up to pull D’Artagnan down, mindful of his arm. The streets would be too crowded and narrow for the beast, but there were places marked out to tie him. D’Artagnan stuck to him as though shackled, trembling when Rochefort placed a hand on his back and guided him down the street. 

The noises only grew, the smells folding together. D’Artagnan’s head ached, but Master soon pressed a sweet roll into his hand, warmed from the sun and sticky with honey. D’Artagnan stared at it with wide, baffled eyes. It was the sort of thing he was fed one or two bites of, licking leftover sweetness from Master’s fingers, and now he held a whole solid roll in his hand. 

“Eat, pet,” he encouraged him, eyes narrowing gently until D’Artagnan took a tentative bite and let his eyes close in delight. “All of it.”

Such innocent wonders, such normal experiences suddenly so novel for a young man who should find the market dull, if nothing else. A young man who was in his prime, who should have ridden horses and worked with his sword, a young man who should have courted women and found love.

Should have.

Would not.

It didn’t matter. Because he pressed near to Rochefort as though he  _ were _ a lover.

Curious, how he found the space and crowds so frightening, yet he was far less cautious in showing his affection to his master.

“How does it taste?”

“Sweet,” D’Artagnan caught a crumb against his bottom lip and sucked his finger clean. “Soft. It’s still warm!”

“Right from the oven, pet, fresh as can be.” Rochefort grinned, tugging D’Artagnan’s curls gently before letting them go.

“It’s delicious, Master, thank you,” D’Artagnan replied, cheeks pink with pleasure, eyes still too dark to be truly contented. “I’ve never had something like this before.”

Or perhaps he had, in the  _ before _ times, but those times had been without Master, and therefore didn’t count. Didn’t matter. 

Master placed a hand on the small of his back, guiding D’Artagnan forward through the crowd, occasionally pausing to place orders that would be sent back to the estate, thanks to a generous bag of coin. 

The roll kept D’Artagnan quiet and occupied for a bit, but soon his bites grew smaller and his shifting began anew, this time accompanied by guilty glances towards Rochefort. 

It wasn’t that Rochefort never allowed the boy sweet things. But why spoil him, when he could instead witness such genuine, innocent delight when D’Artagnan received things? Rochefort did not share his desserts every night, and when he did, he gave the boy carefully torn bites, matching the smaller portions of his meals. 

It made sense that he couldn’t finish the whole thing, but Rochefort had taught him early on not to be wasteful. Perhaps he should also have taught him not to eat himself sick. After a few more steps and a few more hesitant nibbles, Rochefort sighed and plucked the treat from D’Artagnan’s fingers, wrapping it in a handkerchief. 

“It’ll keep, pet. You needn’t devour everything at once.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, eyes just as wide, just as lovely as before. He kept up with Rochefort’s strides admirably, though his cheeks were growing more and more pink the farther they went. He squinted in the sun, he let his eyes take in more of the environment around them, but he still stayed close enough to be tied to the count.

Flowers in all colors.

Dogs prowling the streets.

Pretty girls giving both Rochefort and D’Artagnan brief flirty looks. They amused Rochefort, who did not return them. D’Artagnan didn’t even see them, too preoccupied with everything around them, and Rochefort beside him.

There was a true, preening power in having such control without even touching the boy beyond fingertips to the base of his back.

“Tired, pet?”

D’Artagnan shook his head but stumbled over the next step, catching himself against a stall and apologizing immediately, hands back as though he’d burned himself.

They hadn’t wandered for very long, but the boy’s entire world was only a few meters wide. No doubt his calves would begin to ache, soon. 

“Time to go home, pet.”

D’Artagnan turned immediately, ever obedient, but Rochefort caught the longing in his eyes. 

“There will be other walks,” Rochefort promised him, reaching out to pull a curl out straight and let it bounce back into place, “so long as you’re good.”

There. The bright smile slid back into place, banishing the disappointment that had looked so out of place on his eager boy. 

D’Artagnan followed him back up the road, nearly tripping over himself with glee when Rochefort caught him eyeing a bushel of apples and paused to place an order. They wouldn’t last long, but fruit was the sort of treat one could give a pet more often. 

By the time they reached the first of the stalls again, D’Artagnan’s pink cheeks had started to turn a worrisome shade of red, and his eyes had gone glassy. 

A blush was always fetching, but this was a bit too dark to be the boy’s own. Rochefort picked him up to settle him in the saddle again, and mounted up behind him. The poor thing was like a ragdoll against him when they turned for home.

By the time the estate was in view, D’Artagnan was dozing back against him, head lolling on his shoulders, startling when Rochefort pressed a palm to his cheek to wake him and felt it fever-hot.

It was late afternoon, but Rochefort took his boy upstairs regardless, lifting him to sit on the bed. The count worked the tie on D’Artagnan’s shirt, chuckled when the boy reached for him sleepily, seeking to be close.

“Be still, pet, you need the rest.”

“I don’t need rest,” D’Artagnan slurred, but he fell comfortably to the bed when he wasn’t holding on anymore, and Rochefort stripped the rest of his clothes from him. Sunstroke, perhaps. A day out in high summer after being secluded for so long was perhaps not the best way to reintroduce his boy to the world, but no matter. The thing was sleepy and nuzzling the sheets, stretching out to run his fingers over Rochefort’s pants. His cock was still bound and red between his legs but D’Artagnan still reached for his master instead.

Rochefort bent to kiss his forehead. “Rest, pet.”

“Master, too?”

Rochefort rubbed a hand over his side, over his ribs. Perhaps a  _ few _ more bites of dessert wouldn’t go amiss. “Soon. I’ve deliveries to attend to. But if you rest quietly for me, I’ll bring you one of your apples.”

“Mmm…” D’Artagnan smiled, reaching for Rochefort’s pillow instead. Rochefort gave it to him, watching him curl around it like he did Rochefort’s side. “Will we take another walk next summer?” He asked, eyes closed. 

Rochefort stifled a laugh. “As soon as the weather cools, I expect. Rest.”

“M’already dreaming,” D’Artagnan murmured, and then was out. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do you remember the day you went to duel?” the man asked him. “When Count Rochefort called you to one and you rode out, proud and ready to take him on?”_
> 
> _D’Artagnan blinked. He didn’t, because it never happened. He didn’t, because he couldn’t fight Master. The other watched him a moment before slowly nodding._
> 
> _“That was nearly a year ago. You never came back from it, and we all thought you dead.”_
> 
> Someone attempts a rescue... it doesn't go so well.

Rochefort had not ever been a sound sleeper, so the first footfall to the stair had him up on his elbows, eyes narrowed into the dark. Beside him, D’Artagnan shifted sleepily but did not wake.

His house was often quiet, there were many people in it but each had their place. Their rooms, their meetings, their spaces. It was rare that frantic steps on the stairs would grow louder at some ungodly half-night hour.

Rochefort climbed from bed, cat-silent, and donned a pair of underwear before going to the door. He listened as someone ran past, as someone followed them, and then opened the door to slip through it and out.

Down the hall, a figure turned the corner and vanished. A few heartbeats later, Rochefort followed. 

D’Artagnan woke to yelling. 

Not fearful screaming, but angry yelling, things being thrown and broken. 

The clash of swords. 

D’Artagnan padded quietly across the room, reaching for the case that held Master’s razor. Behind them, the door slammed open. 

“Woah!” The stranger said when D’Artagnan whirled to face him, the razor clattering out of his hands and skidding across the floor. “It’s alright. I’m here to help.” 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re D’Artagnan, aren’t you?” The man said gently, “they said this might be confusing for you, with how long you’ve been here, but there are a lot of people worried about you.”

No. No, there were not. The only person who mattered was Master, and Master was too busy checking on the estate to worry. D’Artagnan would not give him a reason to. 

He lunged for the razor, caught halfway there by strong arms around his waist. “It’s okay,” the stranger whispered, “it’s okay, I’m here to get you somewhere safe.”

“I am safe,” D’Artagnan snarled, kicking back, squirming as much as he could to escape the grip holding him. But there was difference, he found, between play-fighting with Master, and being held by a man who didn’t want to let him go. When Master let him free, it was to catch him again. D’Artagnan whined in frustration, thrashed hard in the man’s arms and almost unbalanced them both.

Almost.

Until another came through the door and pressed a cloth to D’Artagnan’s face, which smelled awful and made him dizzy and sick and suddenly his limbs felt like lead and nothing in his head made sense and all he wanted was to see Master come through the door and -

Rochefort hadn’t mustered the entire goddamn army, just a few of the men already woken by the noise. There was no real threat that he could find, within the house and without. Nothing had been stolen, no horses set free to run the grounds, no fires set. It felt too ominously safe and Rochefort hated it.

But his temper could hold nothing against the things he could see with his own eyes: no one was at the estate anymore. Whoever had broken in had left, swift as a shadow, and taken nothing of import.

He stalked back to his rooms with a frown storming his brow and shoved the door open too harshly before closing it and leaning back against the wood. The room was quiet. Perhaps his boy hadn’t woken with the house, sleepy and lazy from a sound fucking hours before.

Good.

Rochefort liked to be the one to wake him, the one to turn his pliant body how he wanted and take his fill of his pet as D’Artagnan woke up against him. But when he glanced to his side, to the empty bed, his stomach fluttered with unfamiliar worry, and then resigned displeasure.

Of course he wasn’t in bed. The stupid boy probably followed him out the door to wherever Rochefort was going, stupid in his attempts at bravery. He almost turned to leave again, to find D’Artagnan and haul his ass back to their room by his hair if he had to when he saw the razor, the box it was kept in, scattered across the floor. The blade was only half-open.

D’Artagnan could, theoretically, shave himself, but he didn’t, and wasn’t likely to start in the dead of night. Rochefort vividly remembered the body, drawing flies, split so deeply that the face was free of pain, of anything but surprise from a quick and sudden death. 

No blood on the razor. No blood on the floor. If D’Artagnan had meant to come to Rochefort’s aid, he would have taken it with him. 

Rochefort had his attendants check the estate anyway, but he was already climbing into the saddle when they came to tell him they’d found nothing. 

* * *

D’Artagnan woke once, cradled against a chest that was too narrow to be correct. For one bleary-eyed moment, he assumed Master had loaned him out again. He tried to reach behind him, intent on being good, but his arms were trapped against his sides by a thick woolen blanket. 

Memory struck him, the way his clumsy fingers had fumbled the razor, being dragged backwards…

He was on a horse, rocked gently from side to side. It was dark, still. He struggled with the blanket, squirming one arm free. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” the voice behind him said, sliding the foul cloth over his face again. D’Artagnan wept as he slipped back under. 

The next time he woke, the world was still. He was tucked into crisp white sheets in a narrow, unfamiliar bed. His head ached and his stomach rolled. The nightshirt he’d been dressed in chafed at his sensitive skin, nowhere near as soft as the things Master dressed him in. The first thing D’Artagnan did was strip out of it. The second was to heave the remnants of his dinner into a bin set beside the bed, no doubt for this very purpose. 

The third was to try the door. 

Unlocked.

Excellent.

He moved as quietly as he could down the unfamiliar corridor, listening out for other footsteps, other people. But it seemed to go on forever, and D'Artagnan's footsteps grew sluggish and slow.

At one point he had to grasp the bannister to keep himself upright. Then his feet went out from under him and he fainted.

Awake.

Same room, same clothes, same food.

D'Artagnan grabbed up the water pitcher and nearly choked with how fast he drank from it. His hands were shaking. He was dizzy. He couldn't remember the last time he ate but he  _ wouldn't _ eat the food here, it wasn't his to eat, Master hadn't given it to him.

But without food he wouldn't make it past the door.

And he had to get out the door.

Conflicted, D'Artagnan tugged at the hem of his sleep shirt and stared at the plate of food.

No. No, he would try one more time, and if that didn’t work…

He would ask Master’s forgiveness later. 

A few unsteady steps, dizzy and discomforting, and then…

The door was locked this time. D’Artagnan stared numbly at it. 

He didn’t know how to get through a locked door. He’d never managed it with Master, and now locked doors meant safety to him. 

The room was smaller than his room with Master, just the bed, the bin, the small table with the food and a lit lamp, a chamberpot. No windows. D’Artagnan could cross it in four long strides. 

Yet it seemed huge, imposing, because he knew none of it, knew only that Master was not here, that perhaps Master didn’t even know where “here” was. 

D’Artagnan stripped out of the nightshirt again, throwing it into the freshly cleaned bin. He climbed into the narrow bed and backed himself into a corner, arms around his knees, staring at the door. Waiting. No one else would touch him but Master,  _ especially _ not with that awful shirt again. 

He was rocking in place, eyes in the middle distance when the door was unlocked. Hours or days later, he didn’t know. He also didn’t know the person who came in, a man about his age, dressed down in loose pants and shirt. His hair was clean and tied back with a bow. His smile was tired, and D’Artagnan didn’t return it.

“You’re awake.” the man said. His voice was nice, soft, but it wasn’t Master’s voice.

“I want to go home.”

“You won’t have far to go, then,” he smiled, “you’re already there.”

“I’m not stupid,” D’Artagnan replied. “This isn’t my home. This might be yours, but it isn’t mine. I want to go back to my home. The one you took me from.”

The man sighed, moving closer to the bed but not crowding D’Artagnan on it. He reached into the bin for the shirt and started to slowly fold it up as though it mattered. As though that piece of clothing was somehow important.

“Do you remember the day you went to duel?” the man asked him. “When Count Rochefort called you to one and you rode out, proud and ready to take him on?”

D’Artagnan blinked. He didn’t, because it never happened. He didn’t, because he couldn’t fight Master. The other watched him a moment before slowly nodding.

“That was nearly a year ago. You never came back from it, and we all thought you dead.”

Had he only had his Master a year? It seemed like such a short amount of time. His entire life. 

D’Artagnan wasn’t stupid. He knew he had not literally come into being in Master’s care. It was just that none of his life before Master  _ mattered _ , and so D’Artagnan had rid himself of it. 

“I’m not dead,” D’Artagnan said, “I’m alive. I live in the estate you took me from. 

“You live  _ here _ ,” the man insisted, “here, with your friends, your  _ horse _ . Do you remember your horse? We found her after you vanished. I could take you to see her.”

Something tugged. Ached. D’Artagnan felt temptation, bright and sharp and burning, and gone in a blink. Removed, with anything else that hurt him. D’Artagnan only kept good things now. Master had horses, a stable full of them. 

“I don’t want a walk,” D’Artagnan said, shaking his head, “I want to go home.”

The man sighed. “Not today,” he said, in a soft voice that grated at D’Artagnan. “Today, you need to eat your lunch so you can have the next dose of your medicine. And you need to put your clothes on.”

D’Artagnan frowned deeper. “Medicine?”

“You haven’t been sleeping, your body needs the rest, you’re very weak.”

“I need to go  _ home _ ,” D’Artagnan repeated, as though speaking slower, speaking louder, would make the man understand. He had to understand! “Master will give me food there, will tell me to rest, I will be well if I can just go  _ home _ .”

“D’Artagnan -”

“No!”

“You don’t know who I am do you?” the man asked softly. D’Artagnan didn’t even hesitate.

“You’re the man who stole me from my master.”

For a moment, the other looked deeply sad, as though D’Artagnan’s words actually physically wounded him. He said nothing for a while, and then turned to leave the room, locking it behind him. It wasn’t long before he returned, and he returned with another. D’Artagnan didn’t have the strength to fight them both off. They tried to feed him, tried to hold his nose and close his mouth so he would be forced to swallow, but D’Artagnan had practice in holding his breath, in choking and staying conscious.

In the end, they pressed the cloth to his face again.

D’Artagnan did eat, the next time he woke. He found the fruit and vegetables on his plate and devoured them, taking the piece of bread, too, to chew on throughout the day, keeping it under his tongue until it became soggy. He needed to eat to regain strength, he needed to regain strength to find his master, he needed to find his master so he could go home.

It made sense, vaguely, and he let it. Glaring at anyone who came in to speak with him, deciding that silence was easier than repetition since they wouldn’t listen to him anyway. He sequestered the fork from one of his meals and hid it under his pillow, bending the tines back and forth until they broke free.

He managed to unlock the door, and get far enough as the front entrance this time, before he was grabbed by unwelcome hands and hauled back upstairs, screaming blue murder all the while. They didn’t drug him that time, just let him scream himself hoarse and exhaust himself into sleep. The next meal only came with a spoon.

They had provided books, but none of the titles were those he’d been reading with Master, and D’Artagnan wanted to take as little from these men as possible. Instead, he entertained himself the way he always had, with stories and songs, narrating ideas and memories in equal measure. It was harder now, with no Master to look forward to, no long evening or morning hours with another person before D’Artagnan was left to his own devices. 

No toys to practice with, either, although D’Artagnan didn’t miss them. His body had been trained to thrum with arousal on a constant basis, but his mind could not muster the will. Not here, so far away from home.

One evening, the man walked in on him practicing his apology to Master for being away for so long, and that was when the tinctures started.

They were forced on D’Artagnan, strong hands prying his jaw apart, men promising him it was for his own good. They made the whole world fuzzy, made his limbs heavy and wobbly. After that, D’Artagnan spent most of his time sleeping and tearing off the clothes they kept sneaking onto him. 

* * *

Theft of a man’s personal property was a terrible crime. Rochefort was well within his rights to expend effort to hunt down the men who’d stolen his pet. Word that he’d been ‘rescued’ by Musketeers and brought back home gave Rochefort some pause, however, wondering if perhaps it would be better for all if D’Artagnan was left where he was. 

This was swiftly followed by news that D’Artagnan was mad and would soon be moved to an asylum for his own safety. Rochefort readied his horse. 

Finding his location wasn't a problem. While it wasn't D'Artagnan's  _ house _ the place they kept him was far from secret. Three of his brothers in arms shared lodgings just near the river. Three against a company of twelve shouldn't make for much of a struggle.

Though Rochefort had once thought the same of D'Artagnan, and he'd proven to be quite worth the challenge to tame.

They came at night, to return the favour of a rude awakening. They found two men awake and one away, and Rochefort didn't stay to watch their fate; he hadn't given explicit orders on the matter. Because they  _ didn't _ matter. What mattered was D'Artagnan.

Up the stairs and past doors and doors and doors. Any that were locked were kicked in, any that were unlocked weren't the right ones.

It was at the fifth that the count found the door he kicked in fighting back. First with the door itself. Then with something metal and heavy that smelled awful.

He caught the offending object, prepared to stick through the man behind it and found he needn't.

The boy was so thin, so pale and small that for a moment that for a moment Rochefort didn't realize it was his own. Rochefort liked to keep him delicate, but  _ this _ was malnourishment, and he found a sudden rage bubbling up in him that they would treat  _ his _ pet so. 

The boy blinked up at him, eyes hazy, limbs trembling. His hair was limp, curls having lost their shine, and his jaw and wrists bore finger shaped bruises, dark against his pale skin. He wavered on his feet as Rochefort looked at him. His pale lips moved, mouthing the word and then near shouting it as he threw himself at Rochefort.

“Master! Master, I’m so sorry, I tried, I tried every day.” Even his words were slurred, and not solely from the way he buried his face into Rochefort’s chest.

“Hush, pet,” Rochefort chided, one arm wrapping around the boy to hold him up. He looked at the object in his other hand and made a face, tossing it aside. “A chamberpot, pet?”

“They hurt me when I tried to leave,” D’Artagnan murmured dazedly, “So I was going to hurt them.”

With a  _ chamberpot _ . Well, it wasn’t as good as a straight razor, but at least his boy still had some fire in him, despite that he was clearly drugged beyond sense. 

There were books in the room, untouched, a small bed, a discarded nightshirt. None of the comforts his boy was used to, and they blamed  _ D’Artagnan _ for his inability to adjust. Rochefort bared his teeth. 

“Can you walk, pet?”

“Yeah,” D’Artagnan said eagerly, and promptly tripped over his heavy, uncoordinated limbs when Rochefort led him into the hallway. 

With a click of his tongue the count scooped his pet up to hold against him, hushing another apology, though he wasn't sure it mattered that he had; D'Artagnan lost consciousness soon after.

The raid upon the house had been quick and thorough, and while Rochefort wanted to vindictively set the place alight, he left that for another day, for another raid. D'Artagnan was far more worse for wear than he had expected, and the concern that tugged at Rochefort's stomach felt out of place.

He'd come to collect his property.

He was upset at how it had been kept while it wasn't where it should have been.

Nothing more.

The ride back seemed to take an age, though he pressed his horse forward as though they were racing the wind. By the time they were in the stables, D'Artagnan was slowly waking up.

"'m sorry."

"Sleep, pet, apologize in the morning."

D'Artagnan fussed but didn't argue. Too weak, too tired. But back now, at least. Safe.

Rochefort left his horse to the stableboy and took D'Artagnan up to their room.

The razor was still in the floor. The bed was still empty. But that, at least, Rochefort easily fixed.

D’Artagnan made a soft noise in his sleep, a mangled version of his usual contented sigh. He managed to turn his head just enough to shove his face into Rochefort’s pillow, and there he stayed. 

It made it far easier for Rochefort to catalogue the damage, starting from the bottom and working his way up. There were a smattering of bruises across D’Artagnan’s thighs, some old and some new, in no recognizable pattern. Perhaps pinned to keep him from kicking. His hips and ribs were prominent, his stomach concave. He’d been very thin when Rochefort kept him, but after only a week or so Rochefort could just about count his ribs.

A perfect circle of bruises on his arms, his wrist. One on his shoulder, as if someone had attempted to be more comforting in their restraint.

The ones on his jaw were the worst, deep and dark where his mouth had been forcibly pried open, lips bearing the scarring of D’Artagnan’s teeth.

Dark circles under his eyes, hair that needed a thorough rinse, no doubt too difficult to wash while they held his boy down to sponge the rest. 

And red irritation all over from stiff, cheap bedding, which Rochefort was perhaps more irritated by than the situation warranted, giving the rest of D’Artagnan’s marks.

Rochefort laid himself out alongside the boy, rubbing gently over his stomach. Dawn would be breaking soon, and indeed, it only took about an hour for the medicine to finally release D’Artagnan from its grip. He woke slowly, rubbing at his eyes like a child, staring at Rochefort as if he could not quite understand what was happening.

He licked his lips, pressed his face into the pillow with a sigh. "I tried to leave," he croaked softly. "The very first night they took me. The door was unlocked and I -"

He'd failed. He'd failed to get back to his master where he belonged. Rochefort just stroked his hair, and D'Artagnan sighed again.

"I wouldn't eat, so they forced me. Gave me something to…" he looked up at the count with furrowed brows.

"They took you from me," Rochefort said. "They stole my pet, to drug and starve and hurt."

D’Artagnan whimpered, sounding far more devastated than he ever had with Rochefort. “I tried not to let them,” he swore, “I kicked and I bit, but they…”

“I know what they did,” Rochefort told him, trailing gentle fingertips over the shadows on his boy’s face. “Listen to me carefully, pet.”

D’Artagnan straightened out as much as he could while safely tucked into bed, giving Rochefort a very serious, intense look.

“You were taken by thieves. Did you try to come back to me? Did you fight as hard as you could?”

D’Artagnan nodded hastily, reaching out to clutch at Rochefort’s shirt. “I did, I swear I did.”

“Then you’re my good boy. It’s not your fault that trained soldiers are so much bigger and stronger than a sweet pet, is it?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip, uncertain. Rochefort gently cupped his chin.

“If I wanted you to be a warrior, you would be. You are exactly as I wanted you, delicate, pretty, and obedient.”

D'Artagnan's tension left him, he rested against his master more relaxed than he had been in a week - had it been just a week? - and prepared to sleep properly for the first time in just as long -

If the door hadn't slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall behind. D'Artagnan jerked back in a panic. Doors opening like that meant someone was going to feed him, to force that bitter tincture down his throat and he wouldn't have that happen again, not again, not with Master right there.

He slid from the bed, unminded by Rochefort who'd turned to the intruder. Unarmed or not, he had the rage to drive him to a fight. He had had insubordination before. He'd flogged men for less. And the musketeers seemed to be getting more and more prideful the younger they were.

"Release him!" The voice of a boy, certainly not yet a man, and Rochefort laughed at him.

"He's free to go. You took him once and he resisted you."

“You’ve broken him,” the boy said, brandishing his sword, “You’ve tortured him and made a mad man of him. He needs to be kept  _ safe _ under the care of doctors!”

D’Artagnan knew this boy. He had imprints of his hands on his wrists. He would say these things to D’Artagnan, these lies, over and over again, wanting to convince him somehow that Master was anything less than everything. 

And he had hurt him, he had hurt him and forced bitter liquids down his throat, and D’Artagnan would  _ not _ be that hazy, trapped creature again.

D’Artagnan bolted for the razor still embedded in the floor. Rochefort turned for only half a second, just a moment’s hesitation to assure himself his boy was safe, and the young musketeer went for his face.

D’Artagnan heard the noise just as his hand wrapped around the handle of the razor, an unfamiliar roar of pain that shook through his very core. Wide eyed, he turned to see his Master clutching at his face, blood spilling from between his fingers as the musketeer slashed next at his side. 

He didn't slash again.

He didn't slash again because D'Artagnan struck first, a cruel and deep gauge into the meat of his arm, severing the muscles, the ligaments, and causing him to drop the blade.

"D'Artagnan!"

He didn't answer to that name anymore.

"D'Artagnan you need to run!"

He wasn't that man anymore.

"D'Artagnan listen to me -"

"You hurt Master," D'Artagnan whispered, crawling near enough to not need to reach out. "You stole from him. You won't again."

This felt different to when he'd cut the impertinent boy in Rochefort's bed. This felt hotter and tasted more bitter when the blood struck his tongue. D'Artagnan didn't waste his energy on more cuts than he needed, he sliced just once.

Then he turned to his Master.

Rochefort had sunk back onto the bed, one hand over his eye, the other clutching at his stomach. Blood had seeped through, had stained the once-white shirt. It would stain the bedding, too, ruin it forever. D’Artagnan stared.

“You need to get help,” Master gasped, “Go.  _ Now, _ boy!”

D’Artagnan jolted out of his daze, bare feet slipping on the pool of blood beneath him, leaving footprints down the hall, over the stairs. He terrified the first attendant to see him, naked, dripping blood, holding the razor. She bolted before he could say anything, and D’Artagnan forced his way forward. Onward and onward until he stumbled into the dining hall, until over a dozen pairs of eyes landed on him and he remembered it had hurt it had hurt so bad and he didn’t want-

But no. Not today. “Master needs help,” he panted, his malnourished body exhausted even from such a brief run, “He’s been attacked. He needs a doctor.”

He turned on his heels before any of them could try to speak to him, to  _ touch _ him with their big, painful hands, to lay him out on the table when Master could be dying upstairs.

Back in their room, Rochefort had gone pale. He’d pressed a folded cloth over his eye, and when D’Artagnan burst back into the room, he handed him another. 

“As much pressure as you can,” He instructed, laying back when the room began to spin. He’d had worse, he told himself, he’d survived far worse.

But as D’Artagnan’s shaking, frail hands pressed over his stomach, Rochefort was not sure he believed himself. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rochefort didn't return for two days, and when he did it was as a shadow of the master D'Artagnan knew. He walked slowly, moved slowly, winced. His face was half covered in bandages and his hair was flat and oily against his scalp._
> 
> _D'Artagnan knelt by the bed and watched him with wide blue eyes until Rochefort sighed and let his head turn to look at him._
> 
> _"Hello, pet."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rochefort recovers from the injury that finally makes him look like his movie self, and there's some kinky (and weirdly fluffy) encounters here too. Welp.

D'Artagnan was mostly ignored and he didn't much care. Some food was given to him, a bath was set up and filled,but he didn't climb into it until it was cooler than lukewarm.

Rochefort's soldiers had taken their commander out of his room and away, thankfully not casting even a glance to the boy who had brought them. Some returned hours later, well into morning, to take away the fallen musketeer and clean up some of the blood.

The bed was stripped by attendants.

New sheets were brought to replace those messed with blood.

D'Artagnan didn't go near it, not until Master was back.

Rochefort didn't return for two days, and when he did it was as a shadow of the master D'Artagnan knew. He walked slowly, moved slowly, winced. His face was half covered in bandages and his hair was flat and oily against his scalp.

D'Artagnan knelt by the bed and watched him with wide blue eyes until Rochefort sighed and let his head turn to look at him.

"Hello, pet."

“Master,” D’Artagnan whispered back, “did they hurt you?”

Rochefort sighed. “Not all medicine is as useless as what they gave you. You’ll help me with mine, won’t you?”

D’Artagnan nodded, quiet and uncertain. He would give Master his tinctures, feed him the way Master usually fed D’Artagnan. Anything to help, to take care of him. 

Rochefort hummed, his one visible eye closing. “In a few hours, then. With every meal for the next three days, and then less tiring brews after that. You can rest with me, if you can be still and silent.”

D’Artagnan wouldn’t, he would never risk Master’s comfort like that, but he thanked him anyway, leaning forward to press a kiss to the palm of Rochefort’s hand. Rochefort cupped his jaw and sighed again. 

“There was no salvaging the eye. But my pet won’t be scared, will he?”

“No, Master.”

“Good boy. You always wanted more responsibilities.” Rochefort trailed off. His hand dropped to the mattress. D’Artagnan sat very,  _ very  _ still on his knees, waiting to be of use again. 

The first meal was brought by far too many people. Surely it didn't take two attendants to bring broth and bread. D'Artagnan watched them with all the warmth of an alley cat and moved to take the tray from unresisting hands when Rochefort assured them he would be alright without their help.

Of course he would be.

He sat in with a groan and leaned against the headboard, D'Artagnan at his side to feed him and give him the bitter medicine.

He slept quickly after that.

D'Artagnan didn't.

Another meal came at breakfast, but only one. Rochefort usually brought D'Artagnan's meals, and no one else thought to. He helped his master to the chamber pot, to the ewer and bowl, back to bed. He fed him. He gave him medicine. He knelt by the bed and watched him sleep, despite how cold his legs were, how sore his knees.

D'Artagnan's stomach was aching by dinner that evening, it must have been loud enough for Master to hear because Rochefort fixed him with a glare thatsat perfectly sharp with just one eye.

"Have you eaten, pet?"

"I wouldn't eat Master's food," D'Artagnan told him softly, making a weak sound when a hand grasped over still-bruised skin to hold his face closer to Rochefort's.

"You will. Right now, so I can see."

"But -"

"Or I'll refuse it."

D’Artagnan wondered if perhaps the medicine made Rochefort feel as fuzzy as he himself had felt. Without it, he might have known how much more important it was for him to eat and recover than it was for D’Artagnan to indulge. 

Reluctantly, D’Artagnan took a small nibble of bread. It sat too heavy and thick in his stomach after well over a week of eating only when absolutely necessary, of knowing that sometimes they hid things in his food and drink that made him dizzy. 

Rochefort did not look amused when D’Artagnan attempted to offer him the next bite. He stared him down until he’d eaten half the bread and a few bites of meat, and only then did he allow D’Artagnan to feed him. 

“Take another bite, pet,” he would demand occasionally. D’Artagnan obeyed until the medicine finally lulled Master back to sleep, and then set the food aside in case Master woke hungry in the night. He knelt by Master’s side of the bed, sleeping only when exhaustion overwhelmed the pain he felt from so much kneeling. 

The next day passed much the same, with Master continuing to force food on D’Artagnan and D’Artagnan continuing to swallow as little as he could possibly get away with, occasionally employing a level of sneakiness that made him feel guilty and disgusted with himself for being so disobedient. 

It was only on the third night, when Master’s medicine had been slightly reduced, that D’Artagnan woke to a painful grip on his hair, forcing his head back. 

“What,” Master growled, “are you doing down  _ there?” _

D'Artagnan bit his lip, as much in discomfort as being caught out for his disobedience; Rochefort usually slept the night and by the time he woke D'Artagnan was on the bed ready to help him through his morning.

"I didn't want to hurt you when you slept," he offered weakly. "Your injuries, I couldn't -"

"Did I tell you to sleep on the floor?"

"No sir."

"What did I tell you, pet?"

"That I may rest with Master if I'm still and silent."

"So why are you on the floor?"

D'Artagnan didn't have an answer. Because he had been still, and silent, and everything Master needed from the moment he'd given the order.

He'd just not been in Master's bed.

He gave the man a wide-eyed helpless look and Rochefort sighed heavily.

"Get up here."

D'Artagnan did. He wouldn't refuse this order. He stayed as far as he dared until his master drew him closer and almost pushed him down against his chest. D'Artagnan made a helpless noise and nuzzled him, this sensation so familiar, so welcome after such a long time without.

"Disobedient thing," Rochefort told him fondly.

D’Artagnan could not reply. Rochefort's hand had pinned his head down, as he did when D’Artagnan needed to be grounded, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, D’Artagnan was physically comfortable. Sleep overtook him before he could do so much as thank his Master. 

Rochefort was better in the morning. Not fully healed, nor would he be for a while, but he was able to move on his own, to feed himself. More importantly, he was able to properly discipline his pet. 

A heavy thrashing was, of course, still out of the question, but a lecture was in order. He yanked D’Artagnan against his side with ease; the boy weighed little more than a child at this point. 

“If I have to fight to hold you in place, I might hurt myself,” he said, amused when D’Artagnan stilled his squirming, hiding his face in the Rochefort's shoulder. Rochefort wondered if he could get the boy to chain  _ himself _ to the bed, if he made him feel guilty enough. 

“Now,” Rochefort continued, nails scraping in warning over the sensitive skin of his pet’s ass, “what have you been eating these last weeks? Answer quickly, boy. I’ve less than an hour before the pain and tinctures force me to rest again.”

“I ate just scraps of bread when they had me,” D’Artagnan recited obediently. “Some vegetables, no meat. They would put things in the food and it made me sleepy. I couldn’t be sleepy, I had to get to you, I had to -”

“What else?”

“I -” he bit his lip, giving Rochefort a guilty look. “I ate nothing until Master made me eat from his plate,” he admitted. “I couldn’t take Master’s food, it’s not right.”

“So you’ve starved yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to,” D’Artagnan’s voice was so quiet he could barely hear it himself. “I wanted to be good.”

“You haven’t the disposition to determine that, it seems,” Rochefort chastened him, but he stroked his boy’s hair regardless. “Which is why you have me, isn’t it pet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d be so lost without me, poor thing,” Rochefort murmured, “you need me to command you, to discipline you.”

“Yes, sir,” D'artagnan agreed again. He was delicate, he was a pet. He wouldn’t survive on his own, not with no one to feed him or read to him or punish his bad behavior. He’d been dying so slowly when they took him away. 

“When I’m healed, you’ll have to be punished,” Rochefort informed him, “I expect that if you touch my things, they remain in perfect condition. And you belong to me, don’t you, boy?”

“I’m yours,” D’Artagnan said eagerly, wriggling happily in his arms, “please, Master, will you give me the strap?”

“I’ll give you whatever you’ve come to deserve by the time I’m healed. Better be on your best behavior if you want any skin left on your backside.”

D’Artagnan moaned softly, and Rochefort chuckled. “My desperate little slut. What would you do without me here to fuck and punish you?”

_ I'd die _ .

D'Artagnan said nothing, just squirmed nearer and buried his face against his master's chest. He smelled so familiar, so welcome. Like home.

Master was his home.

Rochefort purred a sound against him and drew his fingers teasingly over D'Artagnan's back,down to his ass, back up again. Perhaps he wouldn't have the boy chain himself to the bed, but humiliation was the tried and true method for getting his pet in line…

"I've changed my mind," he said after a while, smiling when D'Artagnan stilled against him, tense with anticipation. "You deserve to be reminded of the rules. That ass has been without bruises too long, and naughty puppies must keep up their training mustn't they?"

"Yes sir." D'Artagnan replied, breathless. Could Master truly beat him? Would he be able?

"Bring my belt to me."

The boy was away like a shot, clambering over the side of the bed that wouldn't jostle Rochefort to get what had been asked of him. He returned with the implement in hand, on his knees by the side of the bed.

"Drag the chair over. Set it where I can clearly see."

D'Artagnan obeyed that too, hesitating between the bed and the chair when he was done. Rochefort dropped an arm behind his head and curled his hand into a fist to elevate himself to better see.

"Get on the chair," he said. "Take the belt with you." When the boy obeyed, Rochefort grinned. "Lay back. Arm under your knees and hold your legs up for me."

The boy was flushed as he obeyed, but he didn't hesitate in doing so. He held himself prone and vulnerable, balanced on the chair with his ass and thighs for Rochefort to see.

"I'll use your hand in lieu of mine, pet. You'll give yourself the stripes you deserve while I watch."

D’Artagnan gave a little wriggle, clearly distressed. “Master, I-“

“We could always tie you down to make sure you can’t be disobedient again before I’m ready to punish you. You liked that so much the last time.”

D’Artagnan had hazy memories of being freezing cold, of an agonizing pain in his limbs. He paled, shaking his head. “No, Master, I can be good!”

“Then do so,” Rochefort said with a stern glare. D’Artagnan swallowed heavily and braced both his feet on one arm of the chair, body twisted carefully onto his hip to keep himself both balanced and exposed. He tightened his grip on the belt, looking helplessly to his Master for direction. 

Rochefort smiled, wide and too pleased, a smile that never meant good things for D’Artagnan, and therefore was one of D’Artagnan’s favorites. He’d learned to love the painful and humiliating things so much. 

“Strike, pet. Don’t go easy on yourself. You have so many days of naughtiness left unpunished.”

The boy brought the belt down over his ass with a loud crack, crying out and gaping at Rochefort. Most would have gone easy on themselves, hesitant and wary of the pain. Not his boy, though, of course not. D’Artagnan had struck himself hard enough that a red welt was already blooming, and he whimpered softly as he ran his fingers over it. 

“Again, pet.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes and obeyed. The angle was awkward, and he could only strike a certain part of his body but he hit as hard as he could and bit his lip in pain. When he blinked his eyes open and found Master watching him, his cock hardened between his legs.

He whipped himself again, and again, and -

“Again,” Rochefort’s voice was rougher, his eye narrowed in pleasure as D’Artagnan beat himself hard enough to bruise. The knowledge that he could have kept this up, could have told his boy to flog himself bloody and he  _ would _ was enough to not push his boy that far. Not yet. Not today.

D’Artagnan was shaking, legs trembling, eyes closed, cheeks bright with his blush. Rochefort licked his lips.

“Sit in the chair properly now,” he said, watching the boy obey. D’Artagnan cried out softly and winced as his punished skin rubbed against the seat cushion. “Spread your legs for me.”

When he did, obedient, lovely pet that he was, Rochefort commanded him to paint the insides of his thighs too. And D’Artagnan brought the belt down just as hard, just as cruelly on his soft pale skin as he had against his ass. Three stripes upon each thigh before Rochefort summoned him back to bed again.

The boy brought the belt with him, hobbling bow-legged until he could crawl up to Rochefort’s side. Rochefort took the belt from him and set it aside, tugging D’Artagnan in for a kiss. 

D’Artagnan made a needy, helpless noise, opening his mouth for Rochefort’s exploration, shivering when Rochefort ran a hand over his bruised backside. He regretted the pain that would keep him from pressing his hips against the welts, D’Artagnan crying out when he tried to close his thighs, as he always did when he was close. 

But Rochefort was nothing if not opportunistic, and there were certain sights he’d been longing to see. 

“You’re out of practice, aren’t you, pet?” Two fingers rubbed dry against D’Artagnan’s rim. He was eager enough that he would have taken them both, regardless of lubrication, but Master merely teased and then pulled his fingers away. 

“Yes, Master,” D’Artagnan said, “I couldn’t when… when…”

Rochefort hushed him. “Put it from your mind, pet. Stay here, with me.”

The permission sank heavy over D’Artagnan. He could put the week apart with all the other things he didn’t think about. Master wanted him to. 

Relieved, he pressed a kiss to Master’s chest. 

Rochefort had taken a sword to his side, thankfully far enough away from his stomach to prevent fatality, but close enough that movement still hurt him. D’Artagnan avoided the bandage, moving just past it, before Rochefort caught his hand in his boy’s hair and gently guided him back.

D’Artagnan nosed over the injury, brushed his lips just barely over the cloth, but enough for the count to feel. He was so gentle, this boy with whom people had not been. He was still delicate and lovely and innocent, though he’d experienced things that made him anything but.

“Good boy,” he sighed, freeing D’Artagnan’s hair to allow him to move as he wanted. He hummed as D’Artagnan worked the tie loose on his loose pants and drew his cock free, arched his neck with a sigh as warm lips enveloped him with a light little suck.

Then D’Artagnan settled comfortably in bed, curled like a puppy, and let his eyes close, contented for the first time in weeks, being useful to his master.

* * *

D’Artagnan was much better behaved in the following days. Master was alert enough to give the attendants his own instructions, and so when they brought food, D’Artagnan did not have to feel guilty for stealing from him. Master made sure to separate exactly what D’Artagnan was supposed to eat, and things began to be easy again. 

It was fascinating to have Master in the bed with him  _ all day _ . Sometimes D’Artagnan would begin to hum to himself, only to have Master reach for him, reminding him that he was not alone. Master even read to him when he was awake, which was more and more each day.

But Master had a job to do, an estate to run, and people were  _ constantly _ at the door. The attendants were permitted to take Master’s orders, but beyond that, D’Artagnan traded them laundry for food at the door, and they did not take a single step into the room. 

Worse than the attendants were the soldiers. They came for the first time the day after D’Artagnan was finally able to serve Master again. 

The faces in his memory were beginning to blur together, but D’Artagnan still dreamed of the worst punishment, and the men still made him freeze when he saw them. But he had a job to do, he was meant to be caring for Master.

“Master needs to rest,” He told the first men who knocked, shutting the door in their faces before they could say a word. Master stared at him from the bed, one eyebrow raised.

D’Artagnan swallowed. “The men, they, they always have you get up when the come to talk to you. They should be able to take your orders and work but they - you always get up.”

“It wouldn’t do for a commander of his troops to meet them in bed when they stand around him,” Rochefort countered, and D’Artagnan flushed, turning to the door again, as though considering letting the men back in. “If it was urgent, they’d have knocked again.” Rochefort added, narrowing his gaze on the boy when D’Artagnan fought a smile and ducked his head in a nod.

They had, sometimes. Despite D’Artagnan’s best efforts to get them to leave.

And had Master really wanted to see them, he would have told his boy to step aside.

“Come here, pet.”

D’Artagnan did, crawling immediately into bed and kneeling next to Rochefort. The man rested a rough hand against his bare thigh, just holding there.

“I haven’t seen you touch your toys,” he said. “Not once. Do you play when master is sleeping?”

D’Artagnan shook his head quickly, biting his lip. He hadn’t played because Master was there. If Master wanted to touch him, he could, if Master wanted to fuck him, he could, and if Master wanted him to play, he would tell his pet to play.

Master hadn’t done any of that, besides letting D’Artagnan warm him, but though D’Artagnan had been trained into near-constant arousal, he’d learned to ignore the ache between his thighs for Master’s sake.

Rochefort slid his hand further up D’Artagnan’s thigh, and then inward, resting just beside his cock, already beginning to fill. 

“A pet should be well-exercised, don’t you think? If you never get any play time, you might start misbehaving.”

“Never,” D’Artagnan swore, spreading his thighs a little wider for Master to explore. Master pinched him there, smiling at his squeak. 

“You wouldn’t be able to help yourself. My needy little puppy. You need proper care to help you behave.” Rochefort pulled his hand away, smiling expectantly. “Well? Fetch, pet.”

D’Artagnan scrambled from the bed, his breathing already shallow from such a little touch. He was used to a lot more sexual contact than he was getting. Even holding Master in his mouth, as intensely arousing as it was, wasn’t inherently sexual for them. 

The toys were kept in the wardrobe, in a small box to protect them from dust. D’Artagnan fetched both the smooth, heavy stone phallus and the lighter one made from polished wood. He presented them to Master with his thighs spread wide again, displaying his eager erection. 

Rochefort pretended to consider, before lifting his gaze to D’Artagnan’s and watching him bite his lip in anticipation.

“Show me what you do when you’re here all day without me,” Rochefort told him, drawing up a knee and laying back comfortably. “Show me how you play.”

D’Artagnan’s cheeks were bright, his eyes all the bluer for it. Rochefort hadn’t had D’Artagnan pleasure himself for his eyes since the first few months of training him. Since then, the boy had either come on his cock or rutted against the bed just after. Until Rochefort put an end to D’Artagnan’s endless daily orgasms, the boy was entirely spent by the time evening came.

But he hadn’t  _ watched _ those.

Now he would.

D’Artagnan hesitated only in choosing which toy to use, deciding on the stone one and setting the other carefully away. He took better care of his toys than himself, some days.

He climbed into bed properly, laying back against the pillows as he would if he were alone. He could feel Master’s gaze on him, as the man turned to his side to allow himself to properly see. Sometimes D’Artagnan narrated himself through his play, but he doubted that would go over well just then. Master wanted to see, not to listen to D’Artagnan’s silly babblings. So he reached for the oil instead.

D’Artagnan rarely wasted much time on his fingers. Master had taught him to take a lot more than his toys right away, and while D’Artagnan often took his time with himself, today he was far too wound up to start slow. Two weeks of celibacy had been near torture, and only the fact that he was drugged for half of it made it bearable.

Rochefort watched as D’Artagnan slicked up his toy, pressing it against his entrance with little fuss. His lips parted, eyelids fluttering shut as he penetrated himself.

“Oh…” Such a soft little sound, a noise Rochefort was used to pulling from him in higher and higher notes. D’Artagnan rocked his hips up a little, the toy sinking just a bit deeper. Rochefort hadn’t fetched the boy anything too sizeable, but the length was still enough that several more gasping moments passed before it was fully seated inside him, D’Artagnan’s fingers tightening around the wider base. 

For a few minutes, the boy did nothing more than gently roll his hips, adjusting to the fullness, the heft of it. Then he pulled it out, slow and steady… and  _ shoved _ it back in, impatience taking over.

Rochefort had been right. His pet was a needy slut, eager and desperate to be fucked. His legs spread wide enough for Rochefort to hold one, keeping D’Artagnan open as he gasped and writhed. He begged for his Master while he did it, sweet little pleas that went right to Rochefort’s cock.

D’Artagnan’s own leaked slick against his belly, the head red, foreskin pulled back. He hadn’t even touched himself there, just used the toy the way he’d learned Master liked to fuck him. He could emulate any mood of his now, from gentle and praising to angry and claiming. The boy dropped his hand to stroke over his brand, the mark long-healed that bound him so entirely to the count.

“Master, please,” he squirmed, head rolling back and forth on the pillow, curls a sweaty mess. He was close, but he didn’t let go. Too well trained to Master’s voice, too aware of the severity of the punishments should he disobey.

“Slow down, pet,” Rochefort told him, reaching to draw tickling fingers over D’Artagnan’s nipples until they peaked to hard little buds. “Tell me what you’re thinking of.”

“You,” D’Artagnan whined. “You spreading my legs wide and taking me.”

“Is that all?”

D’Artagnan’s hand slowed, fingers flexing over the stone as he shook his head, ashamed. He’d never told Master his fantasies. They were fantasies for a reason, they would never happen for him. But they brought him to such desperate aching need that sometimes they were all D’Artagnan could think about.

“Tell me what else.”

D’Artagnan bit hard on his lower lip. His fingers traced over the brand again, a reminder of what he was, how he was meant to behave. 

“They’re bad,” he finally said, “They aren’t for pets. I’m sorry, Master, I shouldn’t have-”

Rochefort slid two fingers between D’Artagnan’s lips, silencing him and bringing a further red flush to his cheeks. Ever the perfect pet, D’Artagnan immediately sealed his lips around the fingers, worshipping them the way he would have worshipped Rochefort’s cock.

“We’ve discussed this,” Rochefort reminded him, forcing his fingers a little deeper, testing D’Artagnan’s gag reflex, “You aren’t capable of knowing what behavior is good or bad, are you?”

Unable to speak, D’Artagnan shook his head even though it made him choke.

“That’s right. You need me to tell you. So, you tell me what you think about that makes you so hard and desperate, and I’ll tell you if you’ve been bad or not.”

Perhaps the boy thought of others, or imagined himself on top. Neither, of course, were truly objectionable so long as they remained in the realm of fantasy, but sometimes D’Artagnan needed a punishment to remind him of his place.

D’Artagnan’s fantasies, however, were nothing of the sort.

“M-Master kisses me,” D’Artagnan said once the fingers slid from his mouth. His own fingers traced a path over his throat, his collarbones, down to his nipples. “Master’s mouth all over me. Like… Like the boy, the one who… Who didn’t know how to be with you properly. Master’s mouth, and it’s so hot and… and…”

The poor boy’s face burned as his hand hesitated just above his cock. Rochefort could guess what came next, but prodded him anyway. 

“And, boy?”

“Master’s mouth on my… On my little cock. Like the boy. But better because I know how to take care of you. And then down, down to my… to my…”

But D’Artagnan could go no further, his mouth slamming shut, the fingers meant to represent Rochefort’s mouth resting just over his rim.

The count hummed, pleased, and kept his eye on the boy even as the other squirmed, his cock so hard it had to hurt, the toy buried deep between his legs as D’Artagnan trembled. Curious that his most ardent fantasies were of a night meant to hurt him. Curious that while he enjoyed the cruelties of his master and ached for them, he dreamed of kisses and affection.

It was almost painfully sad, if Rochefort cared to think about it further.

Perhaps he would reward the boy one day, with this fantasy of his. Just the once, perhaps a few times a year but no more. No need to get his boy lazy by spoiling him.

“You want to come, don’t you pet?” he asked instead, watching how frantic D’Artagnan’s nod was, how he whimpered when the toy shifted within him. He’d considered letting D’Artagnan work himself to desperation and leaving him unsatisfied, but in truth there was no reason but malice to keep the boy on edge. He’d been obedient, he’d taken care of Rochefort, done everything in his power to keep others from bothering him or taking him away.

“Close your eyes,” he said instead, watching D’Artagnan obey without hesitation. “And imagine master’s tongue deep in your ass as you come, devouring his pet, his good boy, as he squirms and wriggles in pleasure.”

“Oh -” D’Artagnan came almost immediately, the toy not moving further than an inch or so, his cock untouched and spilling thick over his stomach and chest. There was a lot to spill, the boy being so deprived for so long, and Rochefort hummed in pleasure as his pet whimpered and came for him, imagining such illicitly innocent things as affection.

Rochefort pulled the toy from him, watching his boy give another helpless gasp at the sensation. D’Artagnan cleaned himself almost mindlessly, sucking his own seed from his fingers while his glazed eyes found Rochefort’s, so euphoric that he looked almost lost. Like he didn’t quite know where to go next.

But that was why he had Rochefort to guide him. Rochefort laid himself back, making space between his thighs. “Come here, pet. Thank me for allowing your release.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, rolling onto his stomach to swallow Rochefort down. His wide, adoring eyes never left his master’s face.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do you know what day it is, pet?” Rochefort gently pressed up against D’Artagnan’s chin to have him close his mouth. “It’s the day you became my boy,” he told him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year together! Treat time! But... treat time??

Rochefort did not believe in spoiling his pet.

He believed in training and perfection, he believed in earned punishment and reward, and he believed in unquestioning obedience.

But when morning dawned on the day when exactly a year before he had taken the boy as his own, he found himself watching D’Artagnan sleep, lips just parted, lashes long and dark over his cheeks. He found himself wanting to commemorate the occasion.

He rose without waking him, watching the little thing immediately turn to where Rochefort had been to curl up in the space he’d occupied. He dressed and shaved and left the room in silence.

When he returned, D’Artagnan was just waking up, sleepily stretching his body and nuzzling the pillow beneath his face. There were days when Rochefort did not take his boy immediately in the mornings, some days he did just leave him to rest and see him only when he returned at the end of the day, so D’Artagnan hardly suspected something amiss.

When he reached for his master, eyes still hooded with sleep and smiled, Rochefort bent over the bed to kiss him.

“Good morning, pet,” he murmured, as his boy wriggled in pleasure and smiled.

“Good morning, Master.”

“Up and wash for breakfast. I’ve a treat for you.”

D’Artagnan was immediately alert, pushing up, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. His shock was evident; he’d never managed to earn a treat so early, and rarely did Master give them without reason. 

He washed hastily, a quick splash of water over his arms and face, a bead of water still rolling down his chin when he slid to his knees by Master’s chair.

Master wore an eyepatch now, over an injury that D’Artagnan could not bring himself to look at head on, but it had done nothing to change how easily D’Artagnan could read his smallest expressions. Today, he was amused, smiling faintly and cupping D’Artagnan’s chin.

“Hopeless thing,” he said, wiping D’Artagnan’s face with a handkerchief, “Aren’t you lucky to have me?”

“Yes, Master.” D’Artagnan leaned into the touch, pouting when Rochefort pulled away.

“Tell me.”

D’Artagnan was good at this one. Some things he’d been told by Master, some he knew on his own, and all would earn him a pet, perhaps even the chance to rest his chin on Master’s knee. 

“I couldn’t survive without you. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I’d be lost, and starving, and I wouldn’t know how to be good.”

“Sweet pet,” Rochefort praised, “Open.”

Master didn’t usually share his food until D’Artagnan had finished his own. It was early for Master’s cock, but D’Artagnan was still eager when he opened his mouth.

Instead of cock, he had a small morsel placed on his tongue, a sudden, startling burst of sweetness that he didn’t know what to do with.

“Do you know what day it is, pet?”

Mouth still open in confused shock, sweetness melting over his tongue, D’Artagnan shook his head.

Rochefort gently pressed up against D’Artagnan’s chin to have him close his mouth. “It’s the day you became my boy,” he told him.

D’Artagnan blinked up at him, letting his tongue move slowly around the morsel in his mouth. He’d tasted something like this before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. It was a little bitter, but immediately sweet beneath. As though fresh berries were bursting from a melting shell. It tasted wonderful.

Rochefort watched his boy take his time with the sweet, delicate thing that he was; never biting, never breaking things with his teeth when he could savor them on his tongue. He drew a hand through overgrown curls and softly tugged them, a gesture of affection rather than something used to put his boy in his place.

“A year ago I brought you here to me and you became mine. Has it really been so long?” he mused, stroking D’Artagnan’s hair until the boy moved his jaw to chew the chocolate in his mouth. Then he cupped his cheek. “I feel as though I’ve always had my pet with me.”

D’Artagnan leaned into the touch, still so wide-eyed, blatant shock a beautiful accent to his features. 

“It’s only been a year?” He asked, awed. Logically, he knew there had been a Before Master, a point when he had perhaps been happy to pretend to be a real person. It seemed so unreal and distant, however, that he rarely gave it much thought. Now it swam up to the forefront of his mind, a reminder of nineteen wasted years on his own. 

He supposed he was twenty now. 

Master watched him, amused. “How long did you think it had been, pet?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. Time was meaningless to him, beyond the change of the seasons. In retrospect, he’d only had one of each with Master, only now shifting back into the cooler breezes of fall. “I don’t know. It felt like longer, though. My whole life. All the parts that matter.”

Master rewarded him with a kiss, gentle enough to make him shiver. 

“Such a sweet thing,” he said, and D’artagnan was reminded once more of the boy, the bad one, who had nonetheless been ‘sweetling’ to Master.

But he was dead and gone, and now Master held another sweet up to D’Artagnan’s lips, letting him suck and lick the remnants from his fingers.

“That’s enough for now,” Master said, and D’Artagnan realized he was sealing up an entire  _ box _ of tiny sweets, sweets that he would, perhaps, gift to D’Artagnan if he was good. 

He licked his lips and sat back, obedient and curious. Would this be something like a birthday for him? Would Master spend the day with him like he had so often when he was ill, but now because he wanted to?

“I was thinking we would go for a ride,” Rochefort said, interrupting D’Artagnan’s racing thoughts and smiling when his boy nearly vibrated with excitement. “On my horse, or would you like your own, pet?”

“Yours please,” he whispered. One of the things D’Artagnan loved the absolute most about their time riding together was that he had been able to press back against Master when they rode, feel him move strong and beautiful behind him. He wasn’t sure why Master smiled so wide at his answer but it was surely a good thing.

“Then you’ll have to dress, my boy. While I would certainly appreciate the view were you not to, I don’t want others seeing my pet that way.”

D’Artagnan blushed furiously but nodded with a smile, clambering up to get his things to dress in. He only had the one set of clothes; Master hadn’t given him more and D’Artagnan would not have known what to do with them even if he had.

He would never adjust to the heavy feeling of cloth across his skin, even as soft and light as the things Master provided him with. Too many layers, too much sensation over his skin, but Master always looked particularly eager for him when tugging D’Artagnan out of his clothes again. 

Master fed him bites of fruit and bread by hand before he rose from the table, pulling D’Artagnan with him. There had never been any need to guide D’Artagnan, when he could not bear to be separated for more than a moment, but today, Master gripped his wrist tight, leadership and possession in one. 

There had been more walks since the summer, and a horse for D’Artagnan to ride. Rochefort always let him linger in the stable first; whispering nonsense to the horses was far better than doing it alone in their room, and his boy always brightened when he could spend a few extra minutes being sniffed and nibbled at. 

There were things about D’Artagnan that never changed, that Rochefort hoped he held onto always. His helpless little giggle when Rochefort lifted him into the saddle was one of them, as was the way he leaned back with a sigh to feel the way Rochefort cradled him as he nudged the horse forward. 

D’Artagnan was beginning to know the grounds as well as Rochefort did, though he still balked given the opportunity to climb down and explore. The open spaces frightened him, and Rochefort could not bring himself to feel guilty when it meant D’Artagnan would cling so tightly to his arm. 

They didn’t ride to the market. Firstly, there wasn’t one on, and also Rochefort found that his boy seemed to enjoy just being outside with him on a horse, more than heading towards a destination.

He’d seen the boy ride before, when he was that prideful stubborn thing who had been so quick to sell his life for a sword, the boy who had kicked mud up at Rochefort and thought nothing of it, who had demanded the count apologize to his horse and called him to a duel as a half-grown fierce little thing.

He’d seen D’Artagnan ride, now, with the horse Rochefort had given him to use. He was still confident in the saddle, still able to move with the animal. One didn’t quickly forget things like riding a horse, like holding a sword. But here, he wasn’t as confident, there was no cocky flick of his hair, no tilt to his chin to suggest he felt himself to be the master of his domain. He rode, now, as though for the first time, enjoying ever moment.

And together in the saddle, his boy was a pliant and affectionate thing. Rochefort kissed the top of his head.

“You’re welcome to see the horses on your own, you know,” he told him. “Should the day grow dull for you. The stables are always here.”

D’Artagnan grew stiff. Master was not one for trick questions; he preferred the immediate obedience that came when he was direct with his pet. Yet still, as the words turned over in D’Artagnan’s head, they felt like a trap, waiting to sink teeth into him. 

“I don’t leave the room without Master,” D’Artagnan said, “I’m not allowed. The door…”

“The door hasn’t been locked in months, pet. I’m sure you’ve noticed. And I’m giving you permission. You love the horses, and they’re fond of you.”

Far from joy and excitement, the offer brought dread to D’Artagnan’s face. As Rochefort had suspected it would. 

“I don’t understand,” the boy said, tilting his head back to stare helplessly at Rochefort. “Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why-“ D’Artagnan stopped himself, wiping uncertain tears from his eyes. “You said, you said I don’t know how to take care of myself. I don’t know how to make choices without your guidance. Why would you take that away from me?”

“Hush,” Rochefort stopped the horse and allowed D’Artagnan to lean back against him, taking his weight, resting his chin atop the boy’s curls. “No tears. We will see the horses together.”

D’Artagnan’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he sighed, turning his head a little as though to nuzzle against his master, but not quite pushing enough to do it. Master wasn’t angry at him, he didn’t want to punish him. He would take his choices and make them for him, because that’s what Master did.

“I like seeing the horses with you,” he admitted, Rochefort hummed, and set his stallion to walk again, a leisurely pace through the orchard that would soon be filled with apples. He stroked his hand warm over D’Artagnan’s thigh.

“Did you like the chocolate this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” D’Artagnan brightened. “I’ve never had anything like it.”

Rochefort very much doubted that, but certainly he’d never been fed such a treat at Rochefort’s feet. “I’ve sent for more books as well. A present to keep you company now that I’m gone again during the days. 

D’Artagnan wriggled against him. Two treats and a walk, all in the same day. Permission to wander out and see the horses whenever he liked. The door had always been unlocked and Master was unbearably gentle and suddenly the world around them was far too wide. 

Could he remember which way they had come? If Master abandoned him here, would he know the way home?

Master no longer thought D’Artagnan needed structure and boundaries and strict discipline. D’Artagnan could not remember the last time he had been punished. Master was going to think D’Artagnan had stopped being a pet, Master was going to set him free. Maybe he didn’t know it yet but  _ D’Artagnan  _ knew it, knew it in his very bones, and he shook with his fear and anxiety. 

“Pet?” Master’s voice was low, worried. D’Artagnan would show him. He would prove that he was still just a stupid, helpless pet. He would prove he needed a Master around to punish him. 

The horse was still moving at a steady trot. D’Artagnan twisted in Rochefort’s arms and slipped from it, stumbling painfully when he hit the ground. His ankle rolled, painful and throbbing, but D’Artagnan forced himself to run, bolting as fast as he could away from the main building of the estate. Escaping. 

For a moment Rochefort just watched him, genuinely confused, before turning his horse and guiding him forward. He didn’t even trot him, just a gentle walk to catch up to the limping boy until they were alongside.

“Where are you going?”

D’Artagnan didn’t answer, he couldn’t. He continued on his hapless ‘quest’ until Rochefort pulled up the horse in front of the boy and dismounted.

“You are silly, pet, but you’re hardly stupid. What did you think that would achieve?”

“A punishment,” D’Artagnan replied, breathless. His foot hurt and his chest heaved. He hadn’t moved more than to pace their room for a year - a  _ year _ \- now and he was overwhelmed. “A punishment so I can show Master that I’ve - that I’m -”

“Breathe, boy,” Rochefort stepped nearer, tugging D’Artagnan against him where the boy immediately clung.

“I’m helpless without Master, I can’t do anything alone. I need to be reminded of my place so I never forget again, so Master isn’t disappointed. So Master doesn’t make me leave.”

“What possibly put that notion in your head,” Rochefort asked him, tugging his hair a little to bring the boy’s face up. “That I would let you leave?”

“Books,” D’Artagnan yelled, frustrated tears spilling over, “books and chocolates and a walk. The door is unlocked and I can go to the stables alone and soon I’ll go everywhere alone and I won’t even be in the room and Master will say ‘oh, I guess you weren’t a pet after all,’ and I’ll have to go  _ back _ .”

D’Artagnan was  _ sobbing _ now, hysterical, his voice carrying over Rochefort’s gentle attempts to hush him. “...and I don’t want to go  _ back,  _ I don’t remember it, I don’t know anything about it and I’ll starve and die alone and crying for Master, I’ll starve like I did when they took me.”

More memories demanded D’Artagnan’s attention, thoughts of that week, things Master had given him permission to forget. D’Artagnan gasped for breath, ragged and shaky, unable to calm his racing heart from running, from screaming. “They’ll put me back in the room, in the shirt, and I won’t ever get out, I’ll never leave, and I’ll  _ miss _ you, please don’t send me away, Master, I need you, I love you, don’t make me leave, punish me, beat me, I’ll take it every day. You can make me bleed, you can tie me to the bed for hours again and I promise not to complain, oh god.”

On and on it went, helpless, horrified rambling, a cacophony of thoughts. D’Artagnan babbled whatever trauma popped into his head, worse than when he was on his own and lonely, worse than anything had ever been. “Please let me stay, Master, let me love you and worship you like a pet is supposed to, I can do better, I know I can-“

Rochefort pressed a hand to the boy’s mouth to silence him, found a shriek as his answer and struck him instead. He took no pleasure in it, but it seemed enough to knock the boy back onto his axis, allowed him to breathe in at least one breath that wasn’t immediately filled with nonsensical words.

“Be still,” Rochefort told him, and D’Artagnan shuddered to a halt. “Stupid thing, look at me.” D’Artagnan did, immediately. “What kind of master would I be if I did not reward, as well as punish my pet?” He asked. The boy was silent, unable to reply, not knowing what to say. “I want to pamper my boy,” Rochefort continued, “To feed him sweets, and apples, and hearty meals from my hands. I want to read him books when he so beautifully warms my cock under the table. And I  _ want _ ,” he grasped D’Artagnan’s hair, leaning close to press their foreheads together. “To paint my boy’s thighs with welts and draw my tongue over them until he cries. I want to fuck him so hard he stumbles when he walks. I want my pet to be obedient not for fear, but for love, and you love me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” D’Artagnan whimpered. “Yes, with everything I have yes.”

“Then you will take what master gives you,” he replied, smile warm despite how hard he held D’Artagnan’s hair. “Both kindness and pain, and love him for it.”

“Please,” D’Artagnan begged, more earnestly than he’d ever begged for anything. 

Clearly, Rochefort had been neglectful. Clearly, his boy needed regular punishments to keep him steady, even if he hadn’t been disobedient. Well, that could easily be arranged. 

He kept a firmer grip on D’Artagnan’s waist for the return trip to the stables, in case the ridiculous thing got it into his head to jump again and sprain the other ankle as well. From there, he took the riding crop, forcing D’Artagnan to hold it so he could in turn hold D’Artagnan. 

The boy stared at it as they journeyed back to their room, wide eyed and trembling. Rochefort liked him red from crying, but only if he’d been the one to cause the tears. Still, an easy fix. 

“Do you need to be tied down?” He asked as he laid D’Artagnan out in their bed, “do you need to be beaten bloody and fucked to screaming?”

D’Artagnan nodded along with every word, rolling onto his stomach without being asked. Rochefort dragged his pants off and smacked him soundly over his ass. “From now on,” he said, “I may choose to discipline you whenever I see fit. Always, when you’re disobedient, but sometimes when you’re good as well, as a reminder of what happens to bad little pets. They aren’t sent away, are they, boy? What happens to bad little pets?”

“Master makes them good again,” D’Artagnan whimpered, pressing his smile into the pillows, gathering his arms beneath them to hold the pillow close. He squeaked in pleasure when Rochefort smacked the flat of his hand down over his ass again.

“And how quickly do pets learn?”

“I’ll learn, Master, I’ll learn whatever you want me to.”

“You will,” Rochefort took his gloves off, finger by finger, tossing them by D’Artagnan’s face on the pillow. “I’ll make sure you learn well. What kind of master would I be otherwise?”

D’Artagnan didn’t answer him, he couldn’t. He could never tell him Master was bad, he could never tell him Master was not enough. Because he was, he was everything. He was everything and he didn’t want to send D’Artagnan away and there could be no better gift. Not chocolates, not books, not a walk with Master, nothing.

Master wanted him, and D’Artagnan would make sure he was a good, good boy so that never changed.

“Up on your knees pet, chest to the bed. Spread your legs for me.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, spreading wide, so obscenely wide that master chuckled and rubbed the flat leather tongue of the crop over D’Artagnan’s exposed entrance. 

“I could never let you go, pet, you’d go mad without something to fill you up.”

D’Artagnan moaned softly into the pillow. The crop left his skin for a moment, left him suspended in that moment between promise and punishment. 

He’d never had the crop before, and the sudden snap right over the seat of his ass was sharper than a belt, a concentrated burst of pain that made D’Artagnan  _ squeal _ , a humiliating sound he’d only ever made at the height of sensation. 

Behind him, Master laughed again. “Poor thing,” he said mockingly, “let’s see if we can’t make you regret this, hm?”

Pain exploded in harsh sparks all over D’Artagnan’s ass and thighs, an unceasing rotation of spots, as Master found what must have been ever single white spot of flesh left on D’Artagnan’s backside. D’Artagnan sobbed, shaking, and when he rocked forward to escape another snap, Master struck the arch of his foot instead. 

He yowled, a truly animal sound of pain, and curled up in on himself to get away from it, before immediately spreading himself for the crop again. He hurt. He hurt so much he felt like he was on fire. When his other foot was similarly punished D’Artagnan’s cries turned tearful and wet.

His cock was rock hard between his legs. For a moment, the count gave his poor skin reprieve and tapped the soft leather against the leaking head instead, gathering a drop against it and stepping nearer to offer it out for D’Artagnan to suck clean.

He did with a moan, turning wet eyes up to Rochefort when he drew the crop down D’Artagnan’s cheek.

“Had enough, pet?” he asked. D’Artagnan’s breath shuddered from him and he shook his head.

“I’ve had enough when Master says I’ve had enough,” he hiccuped, biting his lip and pressing his face to the pillow again, legs shaking with the effort of holding himself up, with how hard he was, how much everything ached. Rochefort flipped the crop down under his arm and reached to tug his hair, leaning in to draw their noses together with a low hum.

“Good boy.” He said. “Master knows what you need, what you can take, what you should.”

He took the crop down again and D’Artagnan whimpered, shaking. But he didn’t move to cover himself, didn’t move to hide himself away. Rochefort delivered three sharp blows in quick succession, one over top of the other, and the pain left D’Artagnan breathless before he finally managed to choke out a sob.

He could have beaten the boy for hours, Rochefort knew, bloody and bruised and permanently scarred, and his sweet, desperate little thing would take it. Even when his body gave up and tried to squirm away, D’Artagnan himself begged to be hit as often and as hard as his Master liked. 

But today was a special day, and the lesson had been thoroughly imparted. Rochefort rolled his boy onto his back, forcing his hips down when he tried to keep his backside off the bed. 

“You remember what day it is, don’t you pet?”

“A year belonging to Master,” D’Artagnan breathed, watery and eager. 

Rochefort crawled between the boy’s thighs. “That’s right. The first of many. I have decades to train and punish you. And if I decide to spoil you today, that’s my right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rochefort kissed over his crest, marked forever into D’Artagnan’s skin. “Don’t come,” he warned, sucking the head of D’Artagnan’s cock into his mouth. 

The sound D’Artagnan made could have been more pained than those he’d whimpered into the sheets during his punishment. Immediately his hands went to his face, pressing to his eyes, over his mouth to keep himself quiet as he trembled and tried to understand what was happening.

Master had his mouth on him.

Master was giving him pleasure.

When he hadn’t deserved it, when he’d done nothing at all -

But.

But. He had. He had, otherwise Master wouldn’t be giving it to him. D’Artagnan didn’t know what was best for himself on his own, he couldn’t. He was just a pet, a little thing, delicate and confused. But Master knew. Master knew, and whatever Master gave was necessary and right.

He squirmed, wincing when his struck skin rubbed against the bed, and drew his knees up a little more. Rochefort took him deeper, humming as he pulled away and looked up and D’Artagnan nearly fainted from how overwhelmed he was.

“Please, Master, it feels so good,” he breathed, not daring to reach out, not daring to touch or command or do anything at all.

“Sweet little thing,” Rochefort praised, “Are you close?”

D’Artagnan nodded frantically. Rochefort pressed kisses to the flat skin of his belly, his skin so smooth and pale from a year kept out of the sunlight. A year kept safe, molded in both mind and body into Rochefort’s perfect pet. He deserved a reward for that, at the very least. 

“I don’t want you to come, pet. Not until you’ve got my cock in you, do you understand?”

D’Artagnan moaned. His cock twitched against his belly, leaving a smear of fluid at the head. Rochefort scooped it up and fed it to him, smiling when the boy moaned at the taste. 

“You’ve learned to love the taste, haven’t you?” Rochefort said, fucking his fingers slowly between D’Artagnan’s lips. D’Artagnan made a confused little sound; why wouldn’t he love it? It meant he was receiving pleasure, from himself or from his Master. 

Rochefort laughed and pulled his fingers away, gripping D’Artagnan’s hips tightly. “A special treat today, pet. For very rare occasions.” He tilted D’Artagnan’s hips up, and then his mouth slid down, hot and wet over D’Artagnan’s thighs and in and in and…  _ oh! _

The boy squealed, helpless to the feeling, and slapped a hand over his mouth as though that would help. Rochefort's tongue was exploratory, gentle, it tickled and felt absolutely obscene and D'Artagnan felt he was going to burst at the seams if he didn't come right then.

But Master had told him to wait.

Rochefort gently spread his boy with his thumbs, enough to tease the puckered skin a little more before pressing with the tip of his tongue, seeking entry.

He felt every shudder and shift, every whimper that D'Artagnan tried so hard to hide from him. Sweet thing. Still so innocent of the pleasures two men could share. The count would teach him. Slowly, deliberately, just what was special, just what was earned, so his pet was always on his best behaviour.

With a low moan, he sucked against his boy before pulling away to look at him.

D'Artagnan looked a mess, debauched and flushed and panting, little cock still so painfully hard between his spread legs. Good boy.

“Do you want to be fucked?” Rochefort asked, reaching to fill his palm with oil.

“Please,” D’Artagnan begged. He was glassy eyed, lost to his pleasure in a way he’d never been before. Rochefort had to pin his hands when he reached to penetrate himself.

“No, pet. Not when you have me to fill you.”

And he did, sliding in slow, relishing the whimpers from his sweet, helpless boy. “Please please please,” D’Artagnan gasped with every new thrust, his thighs clenching tight around Rochefort’s hips. 

“Whenever you like, pet. I like how sensitive you are after. So tight and warm, crying for me.”

D’Artagnan cried out and spilled between them, his hands grasping to hold Rochefort close, to keep this gift he’d earned. His Master fucked him deep, pleasing and hurting him, dragging out every sensation. 

For the first time, D’Artagnan was allowed to touch his master how he wanted, to draw his fingers through his hair and tug it, just a little, to cup his face, to bring him close to kiss without Master first initiating it.

He felt so overwhelmingly cared for, so overwhelmingly wanted that he just let himself cry. Rochefort kissed his tears from him with soft warm sounds of pleasure, taking his time with his boy, grasping his thighs to hold him wide, pressing his fingers to the welts he’d left.

He was an extraordinary thing, was his boy. So well trained that Rochefort knew he would never leave, never betray him, never change this life for another. And there was power in that. There was pride in bringing such a spirited thing to heel and keeping him tame. And he had done that, for his own vindictive pleasure, and now for their shared enjoyment.

Curious.

When Rochefort finished, spilling deep with a grunt of pleasure, his boy was barely conscious, shaking and messy and smiling so wide it must have hurt him. His eyes were closed, tears seeping from beneath the lids, and his master kissed them away.

“Sleep, sweet boy,” he told him.

“‘S early,” D’Artagnan mumbled. Surely they had more to do? Surely Master had things to get to without his pet?

“Then sleep until it is late,” Rochefort told him, settling comfortably beside him with a sigh. “And I will exhaust you again.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He broke you.”_
> 
> _“I disobeyed,” D’Artagnan was quick to reassure him, why, he wasn’t sure. “I disobeyed when he tried to cut Master’s brand from me. This was my punishment.”_
> 
> Rochefort decides his Pet is worth starting a war over...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for this one**: broken bones, blood play, cutting of thighs (nothing suicidal or self-harm related)

D’Artagnan tried to read. Some days he could get through several pages of his books without incident, and others the words floated in front of him like they weren’t anchored down at all. Some days it gave him a headache to look at the pages, so he just turned them, let them flutter open and closed by his face, breathed in the smell of paper and ink and leather.

As Autumn crawled to Paris properly, his Master was summoned away more and more. Sometimes he would take D’Artagnan with him, keeping him between his legs under the table as a meeting raged above and his good boy warmed his cock below. Sometimes he would come to D’Artagnan throughout the day, yanking him close and pushing him up against the wall to rut rough against him, sucking the sweetness of his whimpers from his lips before leaving to depart again.

The evening he came back agitated, D’Artagnan felt a familiar coil in his belly. Master wanted him to sleep with another today. Master needed him to be good.

He tried hard to comfort Master before he left, on all fours at his feet, nuzzling at his knees and rubbing up against him. It didn’t work. He was still tense and unhappy when he ushered D’Artagnan out the door, gripping his chin hard and making him promise to be on his best behavior. 

One step into the room where he would be used tonight, D’Artagnan almost failed him. He knew this man, this wild-eyed brute who’d ripped him apart before. He backed D’Artagnan into a corner, nuzzling up under his throat like they were friends. 

“You’re going to be good for me this time, aren’t you?” he asked, biting hard at D’Artagnan’s jaw, “None of the complaining from last time?”

D’Artagnan had nodded, stiff and unhappy. This time, the man bound his arms behind his back, toppling D’Artagnan onto the bed. It would start to ache soon, but for now, D’Artagnan spread his legs to be fucked.

The man didn’t want to fuck him. He smiled at D’Artagnan, teeth like fangs, and picked a knife up from the bedside table. 

“You have so many scars,” he said, “You’d look prettier with more.”

D’Artagnan had just swallowed, said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to agree verbally, and he wouldn’t deny the man, because Master had told him to be good. Because if he wasn’t good, Master would have a war on his hands, he would lose many men, he would lose sleep, and he would be unhappy with D’Artagnan.

Scars healed.

Perhaps Master would paint over these with some of his own so D’Artagnan could enjoy them like he enjoyed his others.

The initial cuts were shallow and small, like cat scratches up and down his thighs, leaving tiny beads of blood that met beads of sweat and smeared over his pale skin. D’Artagnan didn’t cry, but he was close to it. This was the kind of pain that made his entire body shake, but not the kind that brought his cock stiff between his legs.

He would have to think of Master for that. And he wouldn’t do that until he absolutely had to; he didn’t want to bring Master into this horrid room with him, when he had gone  _ for _ him.

But then the knife got too close. Too close to the thin skin of D’Artagnan’s balls, too close to the hollow of his thighs. Too close to the brand Master had put there. The edge of the knife traced the outline, the intricate pattern forming Master’s initials within.

“Possessive bastard, isn’t he?” The man laughed, leaning close to inspect the brand further, making D’Artagnan squirm to try and get away. A sharp slap over injured thighs stilled him again. “Doesn’t even trust his little bitch to stick around.”

“Master’s p-proud of me,” D’Artagnan told him, “He wants everyone to know I’m his.”

“He doesn’t want anyone else to get their seed all over his little bitch,” the man corrected. “But everyone has their price. One day I’m going to figure out his, and then you and I are going to have so much fun.”

D’Artagnan felt cold and sick. Master would never, Master would  _ never _ . He knew this, and yet fear felt icy in his stomach. 

“This was such a waste of space,” the man said, pressing the point of his knife to the edge of the brand, “Not like he ever lets you out, anyway.” And with that, he began to cut, marking out the edge of the brand, and D’Artagnan couldn’t take it.

“Don’t touch that!” D’Artagnan’s foot caught the man hard in the shoulder, shoving him back hard enough to topple him from the bed. D’Artagnan wriggled back with just his feet shoving against the mattress, pressing himself against the headboard. “That’s Master’s! He’ll be angry at you!”

“You little  _ whore _ ,” the man moved much faster than anyone his size should have, and D’Artagnan couldn’t help himself from cowering against the headboard. When the man slapped him, D’Artagnan held his tongue, but when he moved to spread his legs again, the boy spat at him.

“That’s Master’s,” he repeated. “It’s not yours to take.  _ I’m _ not yours to take.”

“You’re mine to fuck however I want,” the other reminded him, yanking D’Artagnan down the bed until the other wriggled so violently he almost fell to the floor. “And I want to fuck something without having to see that man’s goddamn  _ name _ where my cock is.”

“Don’t!” He wouldn’t stay still. He would answer to Master later, but he wouldn’t just lay still and let the man - “It’s not  _ yours _ !”

They struggled for an age, D’Artagnan cold with adrenaline and panicking that with his hands bound he had no leverage at all. If his legs were bound as well… he didn’t think about that. He couldn’t. All he could do was kick and snarl and cry out in hopes that someone would hear him and come through the door.

Even though they hadn’t when he’d sobbed under this man last time.

Even though there was no one out there to hear.

“Let  _ go of me _ !”

“I will take,” the man grunted, “what I’m owed.” He grasped D’Artagnan by his slim hips and flipped him face down to the bed, sitting against his thighs to keep the boy from thrashing. “And if I don’t get it in blood, I will take it in pain.”

It wasn’t a knife that touched D’Artagnan’s hand next, but the man’s own fingers. And for a moment he didn’t know what was happening, why suddenly there was contact when the man had touched him by proxy of a blade the whole time before. And then the turn of his wrist grew painful, the tilt of his hand was unwelcome, and -

“Stop, stop it hurts!”

The man laughed,  _ laughed _ like D’Artagnan had told him a joke, and he was pulling back further and further…

D’Artagnan’s thumb gave first, a horrific pop that made him gasp before the pain set in. Before he could panic, before he could set loose the scream that was bubbling up in his chin, the man gave him a final, vicious yank. 

Something cracked. The pain sparked all the way up D’Artagnan’s arm, his breath caught in his chest.

And then he was screaming. It hurt, it was agonizing, but more than that was the knowledge that someone had  _ done _ this to him, that the man had grabbed his hand and bent it back and thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

D’Artagnan’s scream had dissolved into hysterical sobs when he was finally hauled off the bed, a tight grip on his arm that jerked his wrists and pulled another shriek from his lips. 

“Go back to your Master,” the man growled, “Show him the loyalty you showed me. See if he still wants you when you’re broken and useless.”

He shoved D’Artagnan out into the hall, still naked, bound, and bleeding. 

He couldn’t find his balance and landed hard on his shoulder, the shoulder he’d injured before, the shoulder that now ached anew as he lay on the runner sobbing loudly in his agony. D’Artagnan drew up his knees and made himself as small as he could, shaking and trying to slow his breathing so he wouldn’t lose consciousness. 

He couldn’t.

He needed to get to Master, to tell him he was sorry, to get his wrist looked at and  _ go back _ … because he’d not done his job, he’d not been good, he’d -

He only managed to stagger up onto his feet because he used the wall to help him. The pain was making him feel sick, he could taste his dinner at the back of his throat and swallowed it back down, determined to get to his room - their room - before he humiliated his master further.

It took D’Artagnan a long time to get back. The wall helped keep him balanced, but his feet caught on each other, tried to trip him. Any shift of his chest sang pain down to his wrist, and he had to stop often to catch his breath, lip between his teeth and eyes clamped shut as tears slipped slick down his cheeks and dripped from his chin.

Outside Master’s door he didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t knock, and he’d screamed himself hoarse from the pain. He whimpered and leaned against the door, nuzzling the familiar grain.

“Master,” he tried softly. If he was sleeping, D’Artagnan would not wake him. He couldn’t. “Master?”

Rochefort had been awake, curled up in his favorite chair, staring at his book. He couldn’t bring himself to read it. He’d been reading it to D’Artagnan in the evenings, and while the boy never wavered in his dedication to his Master’s cock, he was slowly able to repeat parts of the story to Rochefort later, if pressed. It seemed cruel to venture on without him, when the boy expressed such genuine pleasure in shared moments.

The first sound seemed like a fit of imagination. He had never before been concerned for D’Artagnan when sent out like this… But this man was different. This man was a threat to half the countryside, and though the need was great, Rochefort… Rochefort regretted the need to send D’Artagnan, who was so sweetly obedient and eager to please.

The second call was not his imagination. Rochefort might have entertained flights of fancy on rare occasions, but he would not have done so twice so close together. 

Nor would the general have returned D’Artagnan within two hours of borrowing him. Rochefort set his book aside and told himself he was not concerned.

He convinced himself of this for less than a minute. When he opened the door, D’Artagnan stumbled into him, looking up with red eyes and a damp face, cheeks ruddy from the salt of tears. Rochefort took him by the shoulders and straightened him out, frowning. 

“He sent you still bound?” But after a moment it became clear that was the least of his concerns. There was blood still trickling down D’Artagnan’s thighs, and his breath came in pained little gasps.

“I’m sorry, Master,” the boy said, his voice hoarse and strained, “I wasn’t good for him. I need to be cleaned up so I can go back and do better.”

Rochefort ushered his boy into the room and shut the door, turning him to start to undo his bindings when he saw what was causing his boy such distress. His hand was awkwardly bent as no hand should be, the base of the thumb purpling in a cruel bruise. For a moment Rochefort couldn’t even more, could hardly draw in breath to say something, and even there found himself too shocked to utter a reply.

He had had his boy returned filthy. He had had him returned sore and sleepy. He had even had him returned unhappy, mumbling about his inability to be good, despite having done absolutely fine.

But this… this was cruelty not even Rochefort was capable of.

His hands trembled as he worked the tight knots free that held his boy, and hushed him when he came around to D’Artagnan’s front to take his weight against himself, cradling the back of his head as D’Artagnan sniffed and shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“You are owed an apology,” his master said, “you do not owe one. Come here to me, let me look.”

He led D’Artagnan towards the window where the pitcher of water rested on its small table, moonlight enough to see by as he very gently guided D’Artagnan’s hands to his front to examine the damage.

“He broke you.”

“I disobeyed,” D’Artagnan was quick to reassure him, why, he wasn’t sure. “I disobeyed when he tried to cut Master’s brand from me. This was my punishment.”

Rochefort nudged D’Artagnan into the chair; he sat awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable in Rocheforts space. He spread his thighs when prompted, showing off the thin lines and the deeper, still oozing cut by his brand. 

“I kicked him, Master,” D’Artagnan whispered. He knew now, after plenty of genuine punishments and several for maintenance, that things went a little more smoothly if he was honest from the start. “I kicked him off the bed.”

“Good,” Master said, “I hope it hurt.”

D’Artagnan stared up at him, wide eyed and uncomprehending. Master sighed, cupping D’Artagnan’s cheek. “Stay still,” he commanded, “don’t move that hand.”

D’Artagnan may as well have been stone. He watched as Master summoned an attendant, speaking to her in hushed whispers. When he returned to D’Artagnan, he wet a cloth, and then knelt on the floor between D’Artagnan’s knees. 

The world stopped turning. D’Artagnan stopped breathing. Only Master moved, gently wiping blood from D’Artagnan’s skin. 

For Master to do this, to raise D’Artagnan to his place and then kneel in D’Artagnan’s own… this was bad. This was serious. This was more than anything had ever been. Things had gone horribly wrong, and D’Artagnan was not sure they would be able to fix it. 

He began to cry. 

“Hush,” Rochefort soothed him, careful to keep his actions gentle, so as not to tug more blood from the myriad cuts that bastard had left on his boy. He was most careful with the brand, wincing on D’Artagnan’s behalf as he took in the damage. The man’s intent was clear, he’d started to trace the outline to later peel that skin away; he hadn’t gotten further than perhaps a third of the way before the cut went deeper but off to the side. When his good boy had kicked out, he supposed.

When he sat back, he pressed his knuckles cool over D’Artagnan’s flushed cheek, a gentle stroke to thumb the tears from under his eyes.

“Hush, pet, I’m not angry. I’m not angry at you.”

His boy only cried harder, sobs shaking his small form. He held his damaged hand out to the side, careful not to move it, but the rest of his body curled in on itself as though to be smaller, as though to disappear. With a sigh, Rochefort gathered his boy to him, turning to sit in the chair himself and cradle the little thing in his lap instead.

This, at least, seemed to soothe him even a little. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, I’ll go back, I’ll try again, I’ll -”

“You will do no such thing,” Rochefort told him firmly, letting D’Artagnan lean against him as he sought out his broken wrist, his own fingers barely touching as he tried to get a sense of how to set it back. The door opened and he looked up to see the attendant back, a bucket of ice shards as he’d asked, as well as clean cloths and a bottle of herbal tincture that she set to the table with a brisk little bow.

“This will hurt, pet,” Rochefort warned him, nuzzling against the sweaty curls on his boy’s head. “Take a breath on the count of three, alright?”

D’Artagnan nodded. Rochefort set his wrist at the count of one.

D’Artagnan didn’t scream. His breath caught hard in his chest and stopped there, one heartbeat, two, a third, and then it all left him in a low, nauseous groan. He wavered slightly from the pain, but there was still the thumb to set. This went much more easily, simple and only half as painful, but it sent another spark up his wrist. 

His pet turned pale as Rochefort watched, and he had only a moment to recognize the signs. “No, pet, stay with me,” he said, cupping D’Artagnan’s jaw and tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. 

D’Artagnan wobbled, swallowing back a sour mouthful of bile, but after a moment the blackness at the edge of his vision receded. 

“Good boy,” Master praised. “Let’s get you wrapped up and into bed, hmm?” And then Rochefort would find the man who’d returned his pet broken and take the cost of his boy out on the man’s flesh. 

First, the swelling. D’Artagnan seemed to love and hate the ice in equal measures, needing to be distracted while the cloth-wrapped bundle chilled his injury. Rochefort had the boy walk him through his evening, step by step, growing more and more irate with every word. 

By the time the ice had done its job, he was furious all over again. 

He splinted D’Artagnan’s wrist, wrapping his entire hand in cloth, and then binding the entire arm against his chest as he had when D’Artagnan had dislocated his shoulder with the same man. “You don’t touch it,” Rochefort told him, “you don’t unwrap it. You don’t pick at your bindings. You lay in bed and let the medicines do their job. 

“They make me fuzzy,” D’Artagnan said, his voice trembling with genuine worry. 

“I’m going to set a guard at the door,” Rochefort promised, guiding D’Artagnan to lay back on Rochefort’s side of the bed, “no one but me can touch you.”

“Where are you going?” D’Artagnan murmured.

“To take care of things.” 

To start a war. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _D’Artagnan struggled to push himself up with his free arm, the other still bound to his chest for what Master said would be at least four more weeks. “No,” he said. _
> 
> _It slipped from his lips easily, as though he said it all the time, just as simple as that. No. _
> 
> _Master stared down at him, visibly startled. “Would you like to try that again, pet?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the end!! ... for now.
> 
> Thank you for joining us on this mess of a journey! Would you like more? We can make more... possibly. Maybe. >_>

It grew like a storm on the horizon. D’Artagnan could feel it in his bones when Rochefort narrowed his eyes a certain way, or slept badly at night. He could feel that something had changed.

Rochefort had put it forward as a breaking of a gentleman’s accord, and no one had questioned him. The other had made his own claims, of course, accusing the count of being a whipping boy to his own slut as well as all other manner of unpleasantries.

No matter.

Words could slide off Rochefort like water, and he had been called much worse by people far more worthy of their titles. The truth of the matter would remain his to know. History was written by the victors, after all. And he intended to be victorious, even if victory came hand in hand with death.

Preparations had started already, for his men to gather supplies and weapons, for the ship to be readied, packed with rations and firepower enough for several months away. Rochefort was due to leave for the front come morning, but found that his first battle was to be in his own bed.

Perhaps he had known it was coming. There was a reason he had not mentioned it beforehand. D’Artagnan was a delicate creature. Rochefort had carefully molded him that way, had glutted himself on D’Artagnan’s tears and need for comfort. Now he reaped the consequences of such training. 

The days had been odd. 

D’Artagnan would wake to find Master already gone, would spend long hours whispering alone, more than usual. But when Rochefort returned, he would take D’Artagnan with more passion and ferocity than any night before. 

It was cold the night Master packed the bag. There was a fire in the fireplace, and D’Artagnan was sprawled out on their bed, Master’s seed still dripping down his thighs. He watched with sleepy eyed curiosity as Master placed clothes and his razor into the sack, trying to remember if Master had ever done such a thing before. 

“Where are we going?” He asked when Master took up the book they’d been reading. 

Rochefort didn’t answer for a moment, and D’Artagnan thought that perhaps he hadn’t heard. He wouldn’t ask again, of course, but the tension slipped into his body like a chill regardless.

“I’m going on a campaign,” Master finally replied, sitting back on his heels to regard his bag. He didn’t look at D’Artagnan. “A month, two perhaps.”

It would depend on the weather, it would depend on how many men both sides had, and if any allies had been called in, it would depend on whether or not the man still understood the concept of an honorable fight. With a hum, Rochefort pushed himself to stand and made his way to the bed, reaching to draw his hand through D’Artagnan’s hair to muss it.

“Not long enough to miss.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not we, pet, just me. You need to recover and heal. Pets don’t belong at war.”

D’Artagnan struggled to push himself up with his free arm, the other still bound to his chest for what Master said would be at least four more weeks. “No,” he said. 

It slipped from his lips easily, as though he said it all the time, just as simple as that. No. 

Master stared down at him, visibly startled. “Would you like to try that again, pet?”

“You can’t leave me here. Who will take care of you? Who will help you when you’re tense and hurting?” D’Artagnan rose all the way to his knees, looking suddenly lost. “Who will take care of  _ me?”  _ He asked, softer, less certain. 

“I wouldn’t leave you unguarded,” Rochefort promised, “you’ll have your own attendants. Just for you. They have strict instructions. They’re even ready to read to you and take you for walks if you request it. Nothing will change.”

It was the stupidest thing D’Artagnan had ever heard, and that he could think that at all was enough to make him weak-kneed. “I won’t stay here,” he said. 

Rochefort's eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall giving you a choice, boy.”

“I don’t care!” D’Artagnan’s yell startled both of them. Rochefort moved on autopilot; the slap he landed against D’Artagnan’s cheek barely stung. 

“You keep that up,” Rochefort ground out, “And I’ll see you kept in the basement instead. You’ll stay where you’re put, boy-“ 

“I won’t!” D’Artagnan stumbled from the bed, bolting clumsily for Rochefort’s bag. He snatched it up against his chest, backing towards the fireplace. 

“You insolent little-“

“How  _ dare _ you!” It was hardly D’Artagnan’s voice, harsh and too deep for his sweet boy. Rochefort stopped in his tracks. 

“You did this,” D’Artagnan said, tears in his eyes, “you did this to me. You turned me into this. And I took it, and I adjusted, and I  _ loved it _ , but it’s still  _ your fault.  _ You made me into something that needed you, someone who can’t bear to be apart from you. You did it on purpose, and I know that, I  _ know _ that, I don’t think about it but I’m not  _ stupid _ just because I like to belong to you.  _ You _ made me need you, and now you would abandon me? How  _ dare _ you!”

Furious, bubbling with a rage he had long since forgotten how to feel, D’Artagnan plucked the novel from the bag and threw it at Rochefort’s face, at the mingled displeasure and shock that crossed it. 

He barely managed to deflect the object from actually doing him harm. The next thing D’Artagnan threw was a cloak, which unfurled before it could reach the count. Then he took up the razor, and at that Rochefort stepped close enough to catch his wrist.

“Insolent thing,” he hissed, taking the razor away. D’Artagnan stared him down like he hadn’t in many, many months, like he hadn’t since he was the petulant boy Rochefort shackled to the bed. It was strange to see him rise to the surface, when in truth the count thought him dead, long forgotten. “What would you have me do then?”

“Take me with you,” D’Artagnan repeated, slower, eyes narrowing. Rochefort snorted, affecting indifference when his heart was pounding too fast, his breathing was coming in short sharp bursts.

“And if I don’t? If I leave you here, will you disobey?”

“No,” D’Artagnan shook his head, giving up the bag when Rochefort yanked it from him next. “But I will not eat as I should, and sleep will elude me, and slowly I will fade until there’s nothing left of me for you to find.”

“I should thrash you to within an inch of your life for this,”

“You should,” the boy agreed. “But you won’t. You should have killed me, but you didn’t.”

“Commanding me again, pet?”

“Reminding you that we own the monsters we make,” D’Artagnan answered, his voice small again, softer. When he pressed near he was Rochefort’s boy again, the helpless little thing he’d made this way, not the fire he’d woken for a moment from a memory of a boy long dead. “Take me with you.”

“You are not a soldier.”

“No,” D’Artagnan shook his head, the motion nuzzling him closer to his master. “I’m your pet. I’m your boy. I’m yours.”

For better or worse, in sickness and in health… Rochefort could have laughed for it if the sound didn’t taste of bile on his tongue. He was angry. He was  _ livid _ , but he could not deny the truth of the words thrown at him in anguish and anger. He couldn’t leave this boy, because  _ his boy _ would follow,  _ his boy _ would fight tooth and nail to get to his Master, as he’d done when someone had taken him away, as he’d done when someone tried to cut Rochefort’s brand from him.

He started a war for this boy, he couldn’t leave him behind to go fight it.

He was prideful and insolent and arrogant and coy, and Rochefort had molded him that way, had conditioned his responses, had trained it into him.  _ I’m not stupid just because I like to belong to you _ . Rochefort brought a hand up to cradle the back of D’Artagnan’s head and closed his eyes, burying his nose in the warm curls.

“Curse you, you dreadful thing,” he sighed.

* * *

Rochefort repacked the bag. This time, he added a handful more books, and, to D’Artagnan’s mingled humiliation and delight, his boy’s toys and restraints. Rochefort suspected the rage of the previous night was a one-time thing, brought on by stress and devastation, but it would be better for both of them if he had things on hand to keep D’Artagnan in line. 

They rose early, his pet whimpering and sleepy, but eager to follow. Rochefort stretched his arm, dressed and rebound him, and drew him in close.

“You could be taken care of,” He murmured into D’Artagnan’s curls, “Safe, warm, both feet on the ground. Treats as often or as rarely as you wanted. Free to roam or sealed in this room, whichever best suited you.”

“And alone,” D’Artagnan whispered back.

“I would write you.”

“Still alone.” 

“Impossible, horrible thing.”

D’Artagnan tilted his head up, drew his nose along Rochefort’s jaw. “You would be alone too.”

It had never bothered Rochefort before. It would tug at him now. He’d grown addicted to having a boy at his feet, a body curled into his in the night. Soft whispers begging to be abused, the bright, intense smile over the tiniest of joys.

He could train another boy. He’d trained this one easily enough, it would be easy. And time consuming, so much effort when he already had this one at hand.

Rochefort sighed. “Have you ever been up in the air, pet?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, but he didn’t look nervous. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware of where they were going or how they were getting there. Perhaps he’d forgotten that he had once been on the airship, though not for very long.

“It may take you some time to get used to it.” Rochefort warned him, stroking down his back.

“I’ll get used to it quickly,” D’Artagnan assured him.

He did not, in fact, get used to it quickly. 

In fact, he looked like a cat who’d been dumped into a bucket of water within moments of taking off; clinging to the ship’s edge, eyes widening at how quickly the earth grew smaller and smaller below them. He was sick over the barrier before the rudder was even unfurled.

Rochefort had made a show of banishing the boy to his room, but knew he wouldn’t be able to join him there for hours yet.

He had warned him.

By the time they had charted a course, it was early evening, and the count returned to his room without taking his meal with the crew. He would go below to get something later, for himself and his pet, but for the moment he wanted nothing more than to run his hands through familiar curls and have a sinful mouth around his cock as he sat reading.

The room looked a mess already. Books and clothes were spilling out of the bag, D’Artagnan having dug hastily through it. The boy’s own clothes had been abandoned at the foot of the bed. 

D’Artagnan was sprawled sideways across the blankets, a pillow clutched to his stomach, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He’d chained himself by the ankle to the bed, an impressive feat with a heavy shackle and only one hand. As Rochefort watched, the boy whined pitifully, rubbing his cheek against the bed. 

“What trouble have you gotten yourself up to?” Rochefort asked, setting his hand on D’Artagnan’s shin, just above the metal. 

D’Artagnan blinked up at him, and though he brightened immediately, it was more muted than he usually was upon seeing his Master. 

“You’ve been going through my things, pet. I assume there’s a reason?”

“Everything’s so big,” D’Artagnan whispered, “So big and open and it keeps moving.”

“And my poor puppy without enough paws to crawl,” Rochefort mused. He should have known. This was the boy who got antsy when taken for too long a walk. Now there was nothing but open sky around him. 

“I’m sorry I made a mess,” D’Artagnan mumbled, wriggling a little closer to him. “Please punish me if you need to but I didn’t mean to.”

“We’ll see, pet, you’ve yet to have dinner.”

D’Artagnan made a slightly pained sound at the thought of a meal but didn’t deny that he’d eat it. Of course he would, because Master would tell him to. He would eat and drink and sleep and do anything Master said, because he was here now, and his job was to keep Master company, and to comfort him and help him relax after difficult days.

In the air.

So far above the world.

He groaned again, and Rochefort’s laugh wasn’t a cruel one. “Sweet boy. Will you get off the bed for me? I was thinking of reading a bit before dinner.”

D’Artagnan felt a sudden rush of pleasure, of relief. He could listen to Master read. He could do that on his knees and maybe he wouldn’t even notice the subtle shift of the world around him. 

Rochefort freed him from the bed, helping him to balance when he stumbled and bringing an excited flush to D’Artagnan’s face. 

Kneeling brought D’Artagnan peace, a blissful joy. He sucked quietly at his Master’s cock, eyes closed as he was read to. For a while, he forgot they were in the air. The floor beneath his knees didn’t feel like their bedroom, but it was just as hard on his knees. Master’s legs still bracketed him, close enough for D’Artagnan to rest his cheek on Master’s thigh. 

And when Master finished reading for the night, he gripped D’Artagnan’s hair and fucked his mouth deep and slow, the way D’Artagnan liked it best. Deep enough to be a challenge, for D’Artagnan to relax his throat and let Master steal his breath. 

“Did you get any practice in while you were alone, pet?”

D’Artagnan shook his head once he was pulled off of Master’s cock. He’d spent the hours murmuring to himself, trying to soothe his twisting, nervous stomach. 

“Good,” Rochefort said, “I want to open you up myself.”

D’Artagnan shivered pleasantly and nodded, squirming backwards on his knees when Master sent him to the bed again. D’Artagnan crawled into it, spreading the blankets out as smooth as he could manage them with the short time he had. He didn’t know if Master wanted him on his knees or his back, but in bed, the chance to choose was a welcome and novel thing, it wasn’t frightening.

He lay on his back in the end, because balancing up on one arm would be too difficult. And he liked to look at Master when he fucked him, liked seeing his eyes darken with lust. He watched as Rochefort slowly stripped from his clothes, slowly revealed his body to his pet once more. D’Artagnan thought he would never get used to seeing him this way, a man of such stature and power, a man so strong and brutal when he wanted to be, kind when he chose to be. D’Artagnan’s cock curled up onto his belly, his heart beat quick against his ribs. He ached for Master every moment, but the best were those just before he took his pet to bed, the anticipation coiling in his limbs.

He couldn’t help it, he reached out to Rochefort when the other stepped to the bed, bending only to take the oil from his bag to bring to bed with him. He smiled when his fingers were kissed, his wrist, the inside of his elbow. He groaned when Master wrapped his hand around D’Artagnan’s cock and stroked him.

“Thin walls on this ship, pet,” he murmured, lips just above D’Artagnan’s but not yet touching. “The entire crew will hear you come apart for me.”

D’Artagnan’s cock pulsed and leaked a drop of fluid onto Rochefort’s hand. D’Artagnan licked it off for him and then threw his free arm over his face, biting down hard on his lip. 

“Are you shy now?” Rochefort teased, watching the red flush spread down his boy’s throat. “When every man in my employ already knows what a slutty thing I have in my bed?”

D’Artagnan squirmed, half pleased and half mortified. When Rochefort eased into him, he slapped his hand over his mouth to hide his little squeak. 

Rochefort bit harshly at his shoulder, shoving the hand away and pinning it to the bed. “You know better,” he chided, “you know what I expect from you in my bed. Do you need more training? Have I not spent hours teaching you already?”

“I’m sorry,” D’Artagnan said, still in a whisper. He whined when Rochefort drew out and fucked back in, rough and deep. “Please, I don’t want…”

“Let them hear you,” Rochefort murmured, pressing the words to D’Artagnan’s sweaty skin. “Let them remember, let them  _ ache _ for you and know they’ll never have you again.”

The boy shuddered, biting his lip a moment more before releasing it and a whimper with it. He didn’t try to hold his sounds again, turning his face to the side but moans growing louder with every deliberate shove against D’Artagnan’s prostate.

He didn’t want to think of the men, didn’t want to remember how it was with them. He wanted only Master, to feel him and please him and take him. So he did, he drew up his legs and parted his thighs wider and whined, squirming beneath him.

“Master,”

“Yes,” Rochefort grinned, biting down just under D’Artagnan’s jaw to leave a mark. The boy grinned.

“Master please,  _ oh _ -” he cried out, arching up off the bed, squeezing the sheets between desperate fingers. “I’m going to come -”

“You’re not,” Rochefort reminded him, slowing his pace, sitting up on his knees only to yank the boy back onto his cock this way. “You’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you, including your pleasure, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” D’Artagnan’ moaned, gasping for breath as his master filled him, over and over, thick and heavy and familiar. His eyes fluttered before opening again, watching the man above him. He was glorious in his pleasure, powerful, rough, beautiful. D’Artagnan touched himself often thinking of the way he bared his teeth and whispered filthy words into D’Artagnan’s ear.

“More, please more!”

“Greedy,” Rochefort told him, “Greedy, desperate slut. I’m going to have you in every place I can. Take you up onto the deck and fuck you under the stars.”

“Please,” D’Artagnan gasped. He wanted to cling to Master, to drag him down against him and keep him close as their bodies shook apart. He didn’t dare move, so close to the edge that it would soon be out of his hands. 

“I shouldn’t let you come.” Rochefort’s smile was wicked. It burned into D’Artagnan and made him ache. “I should leave you desperate and begging the entire time we’re on this ship, naughty thing. Perhaps you need a reminder of who owns you.”

“Oh god.” D’Artagnan couldn’t imagine going more than a day or two without an orgasm. It was horrifying. Unthinkable. 

He wanted it so badly. 

Rochefort leaned over him, sharing breath, cheeks rubbing together with every thrust. D’Artagnan thought he might lose his mind. 

“Please, Master!” He has no idea what he was begging for. 

“Disobey me,” Rochefort challenged him, “I said no.”

But the way he kissed him, the way he pressed into his boy was far from angry, far from punishing. He wanted to bring D’Artagnan over and keep fucking him, coaxing him to another orgasm, perhaps another still, until he was exhausted and languid in bed, until he forgot they were flying and not just home in their bed together.

Beneath him, D’Artagnan trembled, shook his head back and forth, desperate to be good, desperate to do what Master wanted…

But Rochefort knew his boy well now, knew every inch of skin that made him quiver, knew every tone of voice to bring D’Artagnan to a weeping mess, and it wasn’t long before D’Artagnan was coming hard between them, slick and wet, immediately whining his apology against Rochefort’s skin.

“Sorry, sir, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Terrible thing,” Rochefort praised him, pushing himself up on his arms to see the mess his boy had made of himself as he continued to fuck him. “What did I say?”

“Not to come, sir,” 

“And what did you do?”

D’Artagnan’s breath hitched, cheeks dark with humiliation and desire, and he shook his head hard. When Rochefort slapped him, his weak little cock twitched another drop of come from the tip, so the count hit his boy again.

Always so responsive, D’Artagnan moaned, his body tightening around Rochefort, a constant pulse of pleasure. “I came, sir!”

“You did. “ Rochefort hoisted one of D’Artagnan’s legs over his shoulder, opening him up wider for every thrust, “You came all over yourself, you put your pleasure over obedience.”

He watched the flash of panic in D’Artagnan’s eyes, the uncertainty Rochefort would then get to chase away. “No, Master!”

“No?” Rochefort asked, reaching between them to wrap a firm hand around D’Artagnan’s half-hard and sensitive cock, “No, my pet  _ didn’t  _ come all over himself like a little slut? No, he didn’t disobey me?”

D’Artagnan sobbed, but his hips rolled desperately up into Rochefort’s, seeking more and more pleasure. 

“Again, pet. If you want to come so badly then you’ll do it again. You’ll let me milk every last drop out of you until you’re coming dry and begging me to stop.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes were hazy, worshipful. He reached for Rochefort and Rochefort allowed it, turning to press his lips into the center of his boy’s palm. 

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, just to see the shiver, “I’m going to tie up that sweet little cock of yours. And every day after, until I’m certain you remember who owns you. And if it happens again, sweet boy, I’ll bind your other arm as well and you can follow me around like the helpless little puppy I know you can be.”

D’Artagnan threw his head back and moaned, frantically chasing the next spark of pleasure. 

He would follow. Bound and helpless and for the entire crew to see. He would follow and he would be good, he would kneel by his Master’s side, and take his cock into his mouth and look at him with adoring eyes until Master saw fit to let him come.

“Please,” he whimpered, shivering when Rochefort sucked one finger into his mouth and gently bit down before releasing him again. “Please, I’ll be so good…”

“You will,” the count assured him, pressing D’Artagnan’s hand to the bed as he leaned over him again, bending the boy nearly in half. “You will because you’re my pet, and I don’t have things that are less than perfect, do I?”

“No, Master.”

“And you’ll be my perfect boy,”

“Yes, God, yes…”

Rochefort cursed, pushing deep into his pet, holding him tight and close as he pulsed into him, his own pleasure whiting out his mind for a moment as the little thing panted desperate beneath him, holding on just as tightly.

He didn’t come again, not until Master told him he could, but D’Artagnan watched him with eyes so wide, so beautiful, so needy… Rochefort kissed him deep, letting go of his cock that was hard again, leaking for him.

“Don’t come,” he reminded the boy with a grin, and kissed him again before releasing his body from its painful position. D’Artagnan bit his lip and nodded, smiling when his master looked at him again.

Rochefort thought that would be the end of it. Oh, perhaps the poor thing would have some more nausea, certainly he wouldn’t stray too close to the sides of the ship, but the worst of his worries would have been sated by how normal Rochefort had made everything. 

Rochefort was wrong. 

Sex tired D’Artagnan out for a brief nap, but he rose quickly. The lamp was out, his Master sleeping soundly beside him. There was a window, but only a small one. Not the broad wall of windows, and no view of the grounds and trees that Master would take him through, sometimes lifting him off the horse to let him stand on bare feet in warm grass. 

Once, Master had fucked him in the field and tucked a flower into his curls after. 

Now, all D’Artagnan saw was a dizzying amount of sky. 

The bookshelf was missing. The books were on the table but the table was in the wrong spot. There was no fireplace, though there  _ was  _ a rug on the floor. It wasn’t as soft, though. D’Artagnan paced through it and his feet felt wrong. 

The room was too small, the bed was facing the wrong direction. D’Artagnan tugged at his hair, picked at the bindings holding his broken wrist in place. He paced, muttering under his breath, counting the steps, wobbling every so often. 

_ “Three steps to the table four steps to the fireplace master’s chair goes here…” _

It was wrong,it was all wrong. He'd tried to move things about, dragged the rug where the fireplace should have been, he moved the books to the floor and attempted to drag the table where his mental map claimed it should have been.

Rochefort woke to the sound of quick slightly pained breathing as his boy paced once more, stepping forward and back to check that the new positioning was as it should be.

Beyond the windows the sky was black as pitch.

"Pet," his voice was rough and sleepy,but D'Artagnan was at his side immediately, damn near vibrating with a manic energy. "What are you doing?"

"Master's room isn't right."

"What?"

"Nothing is where it should be, where it is at home."

Rochefort blinked at him, wondering if perhaps he was dreaming, if perhaps this was just a confusing and unwelcome vision.

"Pet," he tried again.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get in bed."

"But I'm -"

"Now."

D'Artagnan scrambled in and was immediately buried under his master's weight.

"Go to sleep you insufferable thing," Rochefort mumbled.

A minute, maybe two. Rochefort adjusted carefully around D’Artagnan’s broken wrist, pinning his side, his legs. D’Artagnan seemed content, his racing heart settling to something more manageable. Rochefort’s eye slipped closed. 

D’Artagnan waited. Counted breaths. Counted steps in his head, counted stones. He’d counted every inch of that room. Master owned 83 books. The bed had 7 scuffs from way back when D’Artagnan had been bad and always trying to get out. He knew the paces from one wall to the next, knew the position of every single item. When the attendants put something back wrong, D’Artagnan knew it. 

If something was wrong here, D’Artagnan would have no idea. Someone could come in and switch everything for something different. 

He needed to know. It needed to be like home. A year. Hundreds of days. D’Artagnan’s whole world has narrowed down, and everything beyond that was strange, unknown, unsafe. 

He slipped out from under Master’s arm, whispering careful instructions to himself. 

The next time Rochefort woke he didn't call his pet to him, he bodily carried him to bed and pinned him on his back, giving him a very serious look.

"Don't think I won't punish you, boy, just because it's not yet morning."

"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan whispered, but he didn't look sorry, he looked panicked. He looked not quite right at all. The count hummed, sitting back on his heels and considered the thing beneath him.

Had he the day to exhaust his boy properly he wouldn't have worried so. But he was commanding a ship, a fighting vessel,and even when they were merely moving from one place to another he couldn't spend that time cooped up in his cabin calming down his boy.

He should have left him home.

No, he knew that had he, D'Artagnan would have climbed the damn anchor chain to get to him.

His boy was desperately seeking the familiar. Rochefort supposed if he couldn't make the environment safe, he could out D'Artagnan into a headspace he knew well.

"Where is your place, pet?"

"In Master's bed." D'Artagnan immediately replied.

"Yet when I put you there you get up." The boy bit his lip, squirming a little. Rochefort raised an eyebrow. "I thought I'd trained you better than that. What short memories little pets have."

He climbed from bed and reached into his bag for the other things he'd packed. A few soft restraints he'd taken to using on the boy in play rather than punishment. D'Artagnan's eyes immediately honed in on them. Rochefort clicked his fingers and pointed to the end of the bed, watching his boy drag himself there immediately and slip to kneel on the floor at his feet.

“Such a disobedient thing,” Rochefort mused, “Aren’t you so lucky you have me to teach you?”

D’Artagnan’s eagerness was matched only by his exhaustion, by the faint thrum of panic running through him even still. 

“You’ll learn your place again, pet. I’ve been to easy on you. I’ve let you have too many freedoms, forgetting that my boy needs discipline to function.”

D’Artagnan stared up at him helplessly. Rochefort crouched before him and wrapped each free limb in a softened leather cuff, all lined thickly to keep his boy comfortable. Pampered, even in this. 

“No more decisions for you, pet, not for a while. From now on, you ask me for whatever you need. I’ll tell you if you can get up, if you can have a nap, if you can play with your poor little cock. You place all of your trust in me, sweet thing, and I’ll keep you safe, won’t I?”

“Yes, sir,” D’Artagnan breathed. Rochefort helped him back into the bed, keeping his broken wrist splinted but freeing it from his chest. The rest of the limbs, he chained down, with enough room to wriggle but not enough for D’Artagnan to roll off his stomach. Rochefort draped himself over the boy’s back. 

“This doesn’t move,” he lectured, tapping the free arm once. “I’ve freed it so I can have as much of you as I like, but if you use it to disobey, you’ll be whipped so thoroughly the whole ship hears your screaming”

"Yes, sir," D'Artagnan said, his voice slurring already with the comfort of the familiar, of being in Master's bed and tied down for Master's pleasure. And Rochefort was there, right there,pressing close and reminding D'Artagnan to be good and he was safe, he was so, so safe…

When D'Artagnan woke he was alone but his other hand had been freed should he need to reach the chamberpot or the cup of water by the window. Beyond, it was bright and sunny, and not at all blue. It didn't feel like the sky D'Artagnan had looked up at, it felt like something else entirely.

He wriggled about until he was comfortable and nuzzled into the pillow by his face.

He could vaguely hear sounds of people beyond the door, feet walking over creaking boards, the ship moving as it needed to, turning and listing from side to side. It felt less jarring than it had the day before, and D'Artagnan let it lull him to sleep.

Because his job was to be good for master. To meet him on his knees at the door,and warm his cock, and spread his legs, and moan his name.

Because he was a pet, and a good boy.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

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